


That Which We Find in Others

by rustingroses



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-29
Updated: 2010-03-29
Packaged: 2018-09-26 00:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9852848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rustingroses/pseuds/rustingroses
Summary: "It was a source of constant irony for Spock that when called upon to save lives, Doctor Leonard McCoy became the perfect Vulcan." They don't understand each other, don't like each other - and they don't want to. But what starts as a fascination for Spock quickly becomes something more.





	1. Chapter 1

It was a source of constant irony for Spock that when called upon to save lives, Doctor Leonard McCoy became the perfect Vulcan.

Well, perfect was, in actuality, an exaggeration, Spock admitted. Doctor McCoy did not try to bury his emotions for all time, nor did he do so in pursuit of pure logic. It could not be denied, however, that a certain emotional distancing took place which was shockingly reminiscent of how Vulcans behaved. McCoy became cool, remote, snapping out commands that carried his usual strong vernacular and an even stronger southern burr but completely missed the sense of deeply felt emotion that usually filled his words. It lacked, as a matter of fact, all but the vestiges of emotion; his feelings may have seethed beneath the surface, roiling in the doctor’s heart, but his face didn’t show anything. He would push everything away to concentrate on his patient, to focus on the being that had just become the center of his world.

Occasionally panic surfaced, if the doctor didn’t have the appropriate resources to save the one that needed saving, but even through that his hands would be sure, steady, would never stop moving, never stop working. The panic was strangely…absent, Spock thought, as if it was the panic of someone merely going through the motions, the panic of someone whose care and attention were not completely present.

Spock didn’t believe in spells, didn’t believe in magic of any sort, but watching Doctor McCoy’s transformation from abrasive and overly emotional man to cool and collected doctor seemed almost supernatural to him, and was thus a constant source of fascination. He didn’t understand why in a life and death situation Doctor McCoy reneged on all those principals of emotion that he was so fond of lecturing Spock about in order to provide his patient with optimum care, consciously or not. It was a marked difference from his behavior in more mundane circumstances, certainly; if a patient needed to be inoculated to go down to a planet, or have normal test run, he was perfectly capable of being the same legendarily gruff and caustic doctor, wielding a hypospray without care for any minute pain it may cause his patient, especially if the patient had incurred his ire. When breaking truly bad news, or when a patient was bleeding out on an operating table, or when the captain of the Enterprise was coughing up a blue slime that most certainly didn’t belong in his lungs, however, his features would take on a reserved cast, something remote and untouchable as he worked to save them.

It was a dichotomy that was endlessly fascinating and endlessly confusing, a facet of the doctor’s personality that Spock couldn’t understand when viewed in light of all of Doctor McCoy‘s other interactions. Why only when a person was gravely ill? If he was separating himself from his emotions to become more clear-headed, why did he not always act in this fashion, since he was clearly capable of it? Why make the change at all, considering that he prized his emotions so greatly? Why?

Why?

So Spock studied, and learned, and wondered. A touch of guilt lingered deep beneath the surface occasionally, as Spock sometimes watched the transformations with the notion that he was invading the doctor’s personal boundaries. He sometimes watched believing that he was viewing something intimate, something powerful, something that perhaps shouldn’t be deciphered for fear of what could come of it.

Spock watched anyways.

He watched the blood stain Doctor McCoy’s hands, watched his expression settle, watched the realization that someone was depending on him, and solely on him, to survive the coming seconds, minutes, settle into his bones. He would watch that caustic, rude man disappear, and watch the brilliant doctor emerge, watch as he snapped out sharp- but not heated, as they would be normally- commands to achieve what was needed.

He watched Doctor McCoy save lives.

It was at those times that Spock could see the doctor that Starfleet had assigned to the flagship, where the best of the best would take command. Though Doctor McCoy always performed his job efficiently and fully no matter the circumstances, the doctor that had been praised after surgeries that lasted for fourteen hours, the doctor that had been complimented for his innate understanding of xenobiology, the doctor that had complete command of his team was a myth to Spock in the initial stages of their acquaintance. He’d read the files of every member aboard the ship, of course, as it was his duty as First Officer- first to Captain Pike, now to Captain Kirk- to be fully informed, but to him, it had always been the faults- the scathing opinion of his patient interactions, the formal reprimands of his abrasive and nearly cruel words, and the heated emotions that had troubled his superiors that had stood out when Spock had finally met him. He could not, would not forget the words that Doctor McCoy had responded with, when Spock had informed him that he would be fulfilling the role of CMO with his predecessor’s death.

“Tell me something I don’t know!” the man had exclaimed, that southern accent tracing the words stronger than ever. Spock had thought him flippant, pointlessly sarcastic, and had spent a brief, precious half-second wondering if, after this entire mess was done, he should refuse to uphold Doctor McCoy’s field promotion. Perhaps, if that was his response, he wasn’t prepared for the responsibility, the pressure of being CMO.

However, after, when the details of the Narada incident had been ironed out, when recommendations were being written and courses of action dissected and paths for the future were being plotted with haste, Spock had been inadvertently exposed to the medical team that had been gathered under Doctor McCoy’s wing. It was a meeting, one of the many that followed in the wake of the Narada incident. He’d arrived ten minutes early and expected no one else to be there, but when he’d walked into the conference room, he was startled to find a doctor that Spock did not know being berated by Nurse Chapel, Nurse Jacobson, Doctor Smith and Doctor O’iill for his criticism of Doctor McCoy. They’d stopped, awkwardly, upon his entrance, but the damage had been done. The doctor that Spock didn’t know had left without further prompting, and the remaining medical personnel had spent those ten minutes attempting and failing to make small talk.

Upon musing over the incident later, Spock found himself rather surprised. He’d expected solidarity, of course. It was to be expected, as it is often the case that people who go through times of great stress often bond, when in other situations their fundamental incompatibility would leave them unable to stand the other’s presence. What he had not expected, however, was the downright adoration that every one of McCoy’s doctors and nurses treated him with. He was not the eldest of the doctors that had been on the Enterprise, or even the most experienced for all he was a Senior Medical Officer, but he’d managed to set aside his emotions during the various attacks and get the injured as healed as possible, and fought to save lives- and won, mostly- when others on staff had been troubled over the deaths of crewmates, hampered by being forced to operate on dying friends. Whatever his fellow medical personnel had seen those harried few days had, without a doubt, bound them irrevocably under Doctor McCoy’s command, and they would suffer no one else as a CMO.

The rather legendary nurse Christine Chapel, as a matter of fact, had threatened to leave Starfleet if she was not posted in the same place as Doctor McCoy, no matter where he was assigned. Though this had made the campus buzz with gossip, the buzzing got even worse when it was discovered that when questioned about his less desirable traits, Nurse Chapel had waved a hand dismissively, saying with obvious pride, “He’s just a sweet southern gentleman under all those burs, sir.” It left Spock wondering just what he’d missed then. Her appraisal was nothing like the man he‘d seen and spoken to on the Enterprise. In the face of such illogic, he‘d dismissed her words as nothing more than rampant human emotion, due to the unfortunate circumstances.

Until, of course, he saw the change himself.

It was not long after the Enterprise had returned to Earth. He had been charged with the task of tracking down the doctor, as he was late for a mandatory meeting and he wasn‘t answering his comm. With Doctor McCoy, it was always a guessing game. He didn’t care very much for meetings unless it involved what his future assignment would be and who he would be working with; he‘d rather spend his time doing what he could to help Starfleet rebuild. As a result, there were a multitude of places that he could be found at.

He wasn’t alone in his thinking, of course. Many of people aboard the Enterprise had chosen not to take advantage of the leave time that they had been given, as they felt it was more important to help Starfleet in the wake of the decimation of the graduating class. Hikaru Sulu and Pavel Chekov, for example, were equally bad at attending meetings, as they too went out of their way to help those around them, filling in for missing instructors or helping repair damage to the campus and thus were often distracted, forgetting the time. Nurse Chapel worked in Starfleet’s hospital, helping to take care of the Vulcans they’d managed to save and helping the Vulcan High Council help map the genomes of all living Vulcans to see if the diversity was enough to ensure that there would not be an excess of inbreeding that would be fatal in the long run. Indeed, the entire bridge crew and a majority of the people on the ship were currently working to restore Starfleet in their admittedly limited free time, including Spock himself. On top of this, the majority of the crew, still had to finish their classes in addition to all the extra time that they were putting towards other projects.

Even so, Spock thought with a certain amount of ire that he’d never admit to, though I am as busy as anyone else, I still manage to make my meetings on time. Whenever Doctor McCoy missed a meeting, of course, he said hardly a word of apology, an effort the others at least made. His excuses varied. Sometimes he’d been teaching classes on xenobiology, sometimes he’d been working in the free medical clinic in the city, to help those who had been attacked that day but weren’t Starfleet, or sometimes he was offering an ear to those amongst the cadets that suffered from survivor‘s guilt, amongst other things.

Spock didn’t see any of those things as bad; on the contrary, they were all critical to the continuing existence of Starfleet. However, it rankled Spock, a little, that no formal reprimand was given, as there were plenty of others who were equally busy that managed to attend their meetings.

Then again, Spock could begin dancing to bad twentieth century music at the front of his classroom, and Starfleet Command would turn a blind eye; the men and women of the Enterprise were the golden children, the immortal cadets that could do no wrong in the eyes of the public and thus at Starfleet- for now, at least. The media was simply clamoring for an opportunity to interview those men and women on the Enterprise who had saved Earth, and Starfleet was more than willing to use the cadets to make themselves look good, especially in the face of the fact that Vulcan was no more. They needed something positive to offer; given that the formal inquiry- which, to be fair, had lasted a number of weeks and had inspected every nuance of every person’s decisions onboard- had shown nothing that couldn’t be reasonably brushed under the rug, Starfleet was more than willing to use the heroism to their own advantage to mitigate any PR damage. Even Doctor McCoy’s dubious reasons for bringing the then-cadet Kirk onboard in the first place, or Spock’s own equally dubious decision to retain command of the Enterprise was considered not to be reasons for formal persecution, though they were quietly assured that if such a thing were happen again, they would find themselves exiled to places that made Delta Vega look tame. Even the more public matter of Cadet Kirk’s hearing over the Kobayashi Maru had been spun positively, and his interference was reconsidered to be a sign of the ingenuity that had allowed him to overcome the Narada in the first place. This was an accurate assessment, of course, but Spock felt it set a bad precedent, one that others were sure to take advantage of.

Shaking his head slightly, as though to dislodge his thoughts, Spock had entered Starfleet medical, in hopes that he would find Doctor McCoy there. When Spock finally tracked him down, he had been informed that Doctor McCoy was finishing up a surgery, and wouldn‘t be out for another hour or two. His emotionless exterior in the face of that pronouncement was enough for the nurse on duty to begin stammering, explaining that the doctor had been called in to help deal with a multi vehicle accident that had occurred when one of the magnetic strips in the city had failed. He had informed her that he would wait, as he suspected the doctor would simply pretend that he didn’t get the messages Spock left, as he had done the first two times Spock had been sent on this particular errand. Spock had learned his lesson however, and now whenever he was tasked with tracking down the doctor, he knew to wait in a place there the doctor couldn‘t avoid him. Finally the nurse invited him to observe, as though hoping that proof would prevent Spock from making a mark on her record. Unwilling to disillusion her with the fact that he would do no such thing, as he was interested in seeing the doctor at work (as well as making sure that he attended the meeting) he had agreed, and then sent a message to Captain Pike to that end.

When the nurse took him to the observation room, he had not been expecting to see a cool collected man through the glass. He was hardly recognizable as Doctor McCoy. This man worked with surety, with calm, with absolute conviction that he knew what he was doing. It had been a shock to finally see what others had seen before him, to understand why Doctor McCoy had been placed as a Senior Medical Officer on the Enterprise despite being only a cadet. Spock knew it was unseemly and un-Vulcan to stare, but he couldn’t help it- as it was, he had to concentrate on making sure his jaw didn’t drop in surprise. He wondered how he’d missed it, when they’d all been on the Enterprise, but realized that it was a moot point; Spock had been more concerned with his mother’s death, with getting the Enterprise back home, and working with Kirk to make sure that everyone and everything was accounted for. Doctor McCoy and medical bay had, as cruel as it sounded, been beneath his concern. He looked back on the time with some regret, now, realizing rather belatedly that Doctor McCoy’s work hadn’t ever really stopped; while Spock had been working on getting Acting Captain Kirk off the bridge for some sleep, Doctor McCoy had spent nearly thirty consecutive hours in surgery, seventeen of which had been dedicated to Captain Pike alone.

Since that day in the hospital in San Francisco, he’d been exposed to Doctor McCoy’s personality shift exactly twenty-nine times in the past year on the Enterprise alone, not including the six times that he himself had been laying on Doctor McCoy’s operating table, which Spock could only assume had evoked the same response. The acknowledgement of this aspect of the doctor had opened the door to other nuances as well, such as the little, silent kindnesses that he offered to his patients despite his acerbic exterior- laying a damp cloth against the back of Ensign Chekov’s neck when he’d caught Andorian flu and was vomiting steadily for three days, offering to spend time with Kirk after he’d lost a crew member, touching people under his care to bring them comfort, even Spock.

He’d been unnerved and rather unpleasantly startled, the first time that he‘d been touched as a patient. It was while the Enterprise was still headed home after the death of Nero, and Spock’s mental shields could barely hold against the painful grief and joy and anxiety and fear in the minds of everyone around him, blazing like miniature suns all around him. A direct touch was almost agony for the emotionally battered Spock, and he’d flinched back from the touch. Doctor McCoy had taken it in stride, muttering something unsavory under his breath, involving touch telepaths and hobgoblins and several curses, but had restrained from touching Spock unless absolutely necessary, unwilling to bring a patient true discomfort, even Spock, despite the fact that Spock knew the doctor held little, if any, regard for him outside the medical bay. What brought Spock pain, however, brought his fellow patients no end of comfort; when the doctor had been forced to pick up a few hypos from storage, he’d touched his patients on the way, murmuring a few things under his breath as he did so, making sure that they were all as comfortable as they were going to be. His patients, in turn, had generally responded positively to the touch. Spock had filed away the moment for further examination.

It was because of that moment that he’d asked Jim, once, why Doctor McCoy touched his patients. He’d suspected, of course, but he wanted a confirmation from an actual human. Kirk had thought for a long set of minutes, and it was only the pensive brow that kept Spock from repeating his question. He was rewarded for his patience when Kirk finally said, sounded a little surprised himself, “I guess it’s as simple as letting his patient know he’s there. For a lot of people, aliens, whatever, medicine can be extremely…” Kirk shrugged his shoulders as he searched for the word. “Invasive, I guess is the best term. A lot of doctors see people at their worst, physically, mentally, emotionally. For Humans, as well as a lot of other races, touching can reassure the patient that the doctor is there, that he or she cares, that they aren’t alone in this. It’s an unconscious response, I suppose, that’s been ingrained into our psyche for a millennia. It’s a pretty big deal even outside the medical field, actually. If people don’t get enough of the sensation of touch, from hugs and stuff, it’s been proven that they can get a little…” Kirk’s voice faded, leaving Spock studying his captain in contemplation, “messed up. Unfortunately, not many doctors do it these days; with all the fancy new equipment, a doctor doesn’t even have to physically see a patient to diagnose ninety-eight percent of illnesses, so not many doctors bother to touch their patients. But Bones is just a southern gentleman at heart, and whatever bullshit he feeds you, he genuinely means it when he says something is for your own good. He understands the importance of being touched.”

As Jim had said, the answer was deceptively simple. Spock had suspected the reason, true, but it was a little different to hear it spoken. The words held a different weight spoken aloud than when they were in his head. They felt heavier, more solid, and wormed their way into Spock’s brain, repeating themselves at strange moments, like when he was attempting to meditate.

Captain Kirk’s conclusion was reasonable, even. For a race such as humans, who lacked the ability to mentally connect with another, skin to skin contact would be necessary to ensure the other person is aware of your presence, aware of your feelings. This was a direct contrast to touch telepaths, for whom skin to skin contact was akin to having your deepest darkest secrets pulled out of you without your control. It was one of the reasons that as well as being unwilling to physically contact each other, touch telepaths were careful to avoid physical contact with others as well, so as to preserve a sense of privacy and equality for all races.

And yet the doctor showed no true discomfort in touching him in medical bay. His reserve and lack of touch was for Spock’s sake and comfort, not his own. Though he had to know that when he touched the other man, he was exposing himself to Spock without getting anything in return, he never seemed truly bothered by it. Indeed, when they did brush skin, the only real feeling that Spock received despite his mental shield was a rather concentrated hum of patient-safe-no pain that buzzed in his bones and spread warmth through his body. Outside medical bay, of course, the story was often different, but inside at least, Spock could know that at all times Doctor McCoy would no more purposefully cause a patient discomfort than he would begin telling everyone of his love for space.

And so the state of affairs had been when a mission had gone terribly wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

It seemed, sometimes, that most missions went terribly wrong, through that was a bit of an exaggeration. Truly, most of the missions that the Enterprise had been sent on for its first year as flagship had been resounding successes. Perhaps, then, it was the fact that when things did go wrong, they went so absolutely, spectacularly and catastrophically amiss.   
  
Such was the case now, where Doctor McCoy was racing alongside two gurneys. Captain Kirk was passed out from the pain, the sheer agony of having boiling oil come in contact with his skin having long since crossed even Captain Kirk’s pain threshold. Too much of his body was slick with blood from the burns. On top of that, he was having trouble breathing, which amongst other things could mean he was allergic to the oil, for it seemed sometimes that Captain Kirk was allergic to every food and medicine that he came in contact with, no matter what kind of contact it was.   
  
Spock was struggling to stay awake through the pain- which was quickly overwhelming even his tolerance- in order to try and give Doctor McCoy the details he needed of the time that they’d been held hostage, so the doctor could properly assess the damage. He knew that he was probably failing, as he couldn’t keep track of his words anymore, yet found himself equally unwilling to slip into blissful unconsciousness, away from the incandescent pain. His rambling was stopped by a voice that he would have sworn was his father’s. It reminded him nothing so much as the day he’d lost his mother, and he had spoken of his inability to control his anger, and his father had said, “I believe she would say, ‘Do not try to’.” It was a voice of stillness, of infinite sadness and infinite kindness buried beneath the Vulcan exterior.   
  
This voice couldn’t be Sarek’s though, and the only reason Spock knew it couldn’t be his voice was because of the southern burr that was so thick it was practically dripping off the words. “I’ve got you now, Spock. Just relax, I know about Jim. Let go.” And there- there it was, that sadness and kindness buried as deep as the speaker could manage so that he sounded calm and collected on the surface and Spock stopped fighting in reflex. Then Spock was gone, falling away from the pain and into a regenerative meditative state in order to optimize healing.   
  
Though Spock was disinclined to believe in luck, both he and Jim were out of the medical bay within ten days, provided they rest in their quarters for another two days and remained on light duty for the following four. Spock found himself not minding, oddly enough, as he was content to spend an unreasonable amount of time attempting to dissect Doctor McCoy’s voice and inflection before he’d finally slipped into unconsciousness. He could come to no conclusions; he wasn’t even sure what kind of conclusions he was supposed to draw from the experience.   
  
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He had concluded that somehow it had been pleasing to hear the Doctor McCoy’s voice, even if it wasn’t quantifiable as anything other than what Captain Kirk called a ‘gut reaction’. That conclusion wasn’t enough, wasn’t nearly enough to sum up the interesting conundrum that was Doctor McCoy. He was curious, beyond curious now. Spock was desperate to understand. It was like an irresistible itch, to pry and dig and find out why, now more than ever.   
  
In truth, as much of his confusion was directed at himself as at the doctor; he could no more explain Doctor McCoy’s actions than he could explain why his own fascination drove him to discover more. Spock was sure that had he voiced his thoughts and observations to Captain Kirk, the man would simply shake his head and declare that he should, “quit while he was ahead” because sometimes, “Bones was just Bones” and he was a “Human ruled by emotion, by your own description.” In Spock’s opinion, that sort of answer was not in the least satisfactory, even if it was accurate.   
  
So he returned to his observations, and slowly but surely he found himself coming to the realization that unless he directly asked for an explanation, his observations would yield nothing comprehendible, let alone something concrete that would result in his questions being answered. He simply did not understand the emotional workings behind Doctor McCoy’s actions. However, he didn’t quite dare ask directly; he’d made inquiries in that direction, asking the doctor about critical situations, asking him about his emotions. All his questions resulted in, despite Spock’s best efforts, were acerbic comments, cruel and disparaging remarks and a considerable amount of contempt that made anger flare in Spock’s heart. He didn’t understand the reason for the rage behind the doctor’s comments, and relations between them worsened.   
  
These questions also resulted in Doctor McCoy frequently seeking Captain Kirk out, and beneath his rude comments about Spock’s behavior there was a desperation that even Spock could sense. As he had suspected, there was something there, something that made the doctor uncomfortable, something that he didn’t wish to speak about. Though the doctor would have everyone believe that Spock was completely insensitive to the emotional needs of those around him, even he could tell that pushing the doctor would do more harm than good.   
  
As a result, he tried his best to put the question out of his mind. It was a trick his mother had taught him. Sometimes, if one set aside a problem that was particularly troubling, the subconscious would work on it, and the next time the problem was revisited without the tension and frustration that was initially associated with the problem. Spock attempted the same thing, studiously ignoring the doctor when he saw him gently sedating Mr. Scott when the Chief Engineer had broken his leg in three places fixing his engines in the middle of a particularly nasty Klingon attack. Spock turned a blind eye to the doctor when he saw him bandaging Lieutenant Sulu’s hand after the man heard that his mother had died. Spock paid no attention when Yeoman Rand came into the medical bay frazzled to the point of tears about her inability to get Captain Kirk to do his paperwork and Doctor McCoy kindly gave her some tips.   
  
Then they were assigned to visit Isa Epsilon IV, an ice planet whose native people were interested in joining the Federation. One of the conditions to their signing the treaty was that the infamous Captain James T Kirk attend the signing ceremony; apparently, it was the Captain’s deeds in the face of overwhelming danger and odds that had finally impressed them enough that they were willing to join the Federation. As the Federation had its eyes on the planet’s dilithium supply, they were more than willing to force the Enterprise into attendance in the interest of getting the treaty signed before the I’Iaooii changed their minds.   
  
As reluctant as Spock felt about admitting that he still felt guilt for the marooning of the captain on Delta Vega, he found himself willing to admit to his guilt over the decision ten times over if it would only stop Captain Kirk from complaining in his every free instant how much he hated ice planets, focusing his irritation mostly on where he’d managed to get snow during the course of his journey and about the monsters he encountered along the way. From Kirk’s sly glances when he thought Spock wasn’t looking, he was doing it on purpose in order to rile his First Officer, as he was wont to do. That didn’t help Spock keep his irritation down, and finally he resorted to raising an irritated brow and directing a sharp comment at the captain, which didn’t perturb the man in the least.   
  
“Wait until you’ve got snow up your-” his eyes flickered briefly to Nyota who had raised an eyebrow of her own, daring him to finish the comment the way everyone on the bridge knew he wanted to. He considered the level of death that was contained in the look, and finished, “shirt, and then you tell me how happy you would be returning to a planet that possesses an extremely similar climate.”   
  
Spock couldn’t help his rejoinder, “Considering that the average Vulcan is comfortable at a temperature exactly seventeen point two degrees higher than is maintained throughout the ship, being out in the snow and the cold will not make as great an impression as you may think, Captain. No matter where that snow may be found.” That was not completely a lie, Spock rationalized, as he was of the opinion that cold was cold- it simply varied in intensity. That being said, San Francisco winters were the coldest Spock had ever experienced, and Delta Vega had an average temperature approximately one hundred degrees Kelvin cooler than San Francisco.   
  
Captain Kirk simply stared at Spock for a moment before smiling widely. “Is that so,” he mused without making the phrase seem as though it was anything but a rhetorical statement, while also giving the impression that he knew what Spock had been thinking. Spock wasn’t quite sure how to interpret his conclusions, but had a feeling that it wouldn’t bode well for the future. Though Spock had the urge to put a stop to whatever it was that Kirk was thinking before it blew up the Enterprise by accident, it was 19:00, and Nyota was indicating that a call was coming through for the Captain.   
  
It was Admiral Pike, who greeted everyone on the bridge by name and with a wide, genuine smile. As illogical as the thought was, considering that Spock already had a father, he couldn’t help but agree with Jim’s assessment that Admiral Pike was like a universal father to the entire crew. They all wanted to do him proud, Jim perhaps most of all. As illogical as it was, Jim wasn’t entirely wrong; Spock was as beholden as the rest of the crew to him, for Admiral Pike- then Captain Pike- had shown Spock genuine kindness when few others bothered to so much as approach him, let alone speak with him. He had been something of a saving grace those first few months, when Spock found himself inexplicably lonely, despite his Vulcan heritage.   
  
They moved to business rather quickly; Admiral Pike gave them more details on the ceremony itself, supplementing the brief that Starfleet Command had already sent over. It sounded like a fairly typical ceremony; Spock, Captain Kirk, Doctor McCoy, Ensign Giotto, Ensign Jacobson and Lieutenant Hari’chk’chk’cli would be attending a grand meal for all the parties involved, and then Captain Kirk would sign the treaty in his capacity as a Starfleet Captain. After three days of celebration culminating in a performance of how Io, their local hero, had managed to unite the I’Iaooii tribes, they would ferry I’Iaooii Gretch back to Earth, where she could begin her Ambassadorial duties. Finally, after exchanging a few more pleasantries, Admiral Pike signed off with the words, “We’ll see each other on Earth in a couple of weeks. Try not to blow up anything irreparable before then!”   
  
Before Jim could speak, Admiral Pike had signed off. After another couple of minutes of Jim grumbling under his breath about smartass admirals who always had to have the last word, the landing party actually began the arduous process of getting ready to land on the Isa Epsilon IV homeworld. It involved vaccinations, paperwork, and copious amounts of time going over reports over the cultural taboos, amongst other things.   
  
They were to beam down just outside the main government facility, an enormous building named the Iai Alooi, which roughly translated into Federation Standard as “The Future Star”. The building was the center in which all formal documents were signed, from marriage certificates to laws to treaties. It was made of some sort of shimmering purple stone, brilliant against the surrounding snow, both as the highest building on the planet and the only one in the area. The Iai Alooi was five miles north of their biggest city, Siaoo, the hub of both their government and trading. It was also revered as being the first building that Io had constructed, a miraculous feat, considering the tools and knowledge they’d had at the time.   
  
As per I’Iaooii custom, they would beam down a few yards from the main entrance so that they might participate in the entering ceremony that all beings were invited to take part of. Of course, they were also beaming down a few yards from the main entrance because one couldn’t beam into the building, due to some sort of electrostatic interference that had Mr. Scott swearing in particularly virulent fashion.   
  
Being such a cold planet, one of the signs of I’Iaooii hospitality was heat, and as such, the Iai Alooi had been built over a natural hot spring, which every guest was invited to bathe in before any ceremony performed. In the baths, disputes were set aside, grudges relaxed, arguments suspended and anger disposed of, while they all partook of the baths and cleaning each other, that they might look forward to the future cleansed of bad feelings and intentions.   
  
They had been, of course, willing to accept that the beings coming to them had different standards of modesty, and had agreed to let them keep as many layers as they felt appropriate on in the baths, so long as they upheld the I’Iaooii traditions, such as washing the backs of those who requested it and being amiable to all creatures present regardless of origin, amongst other things. After everyone had partaken of the baths, that evening the signing of the treaty would actually commence, complete with speeches and gifts. Finally, a banquet would last until late in the night, followed by three days celebration of the treaty and the new, official partnership, which Jim Kirk had a place of honor in. The I’Iaooii were a people once fraught with clan wars and petty disagreements, and had been unified under their hero, Io, who had saved from complete destruction when a planet-wide snowstorm threatened to wipe their entire civilization out. As a result, they wanted to honor the captain, who they felt had acted out of a similar courage and love for others. Thus, he had been invited to act as Io in the annual retelling of the story.   
  
Spock shared a rare moment of exasperation over the captain’s head with Doctor McCoy, each of them irritated with the man’s nearly constant crowing over the fact that he was going to be acting as the local hero, as well as being lauded as a hero of the Federation; they’d both heard more than a few mentions of sex in conjunction with the comments, and neither of them were particularly interested in hearing about Jim‘s exploits.   
  
Despite all the commotion, however, everyone on the landing party was prepared for the day when they actually beamed down.   
  
Things went almost shockingly smoothly. The bathing before the ceremony was somewhat awkward, but nothing excessive; the landing party had generally agreed that they wished to cover up their genitals as their individual modesty dictated and did so, though it was odd for them to see their fellow crewman in so little clothing. Captain Kirk, of course, had no problem running around stark naked, exchanging stories with the I’Iaooii, who had became even more delighted with the man the longer that they had his acquaintance. Jim, for his part, seemed equally taken by the generally cheerful and positive natives, and was not in the least bothered by their different physiologies. The I’Iaooii were mostly hairy humanoids, their thicker body fat helping ensure that they survived their planet’s cold, and androgynous bodies, at least to the Enterprise’s crew’s eyes. Kirk seemed to delight in washing the backs of those who asked, and having his back washed in return (once, of course, Doctor McCoy had ensured that the soaps they used would not react poorly with the man’s infamously terrible immune system). Spock, of course, as a member of the Vulcan species who had helped deliver vengeance upon the man who had wiped out Spock’s home world, was also admired, as was Doctor McCoy as a healer.   
  
While Captain Kirk claimed the majority of the room’s attention, Spock took a few moments to enjoy the simple luxury of the heated water against his skin. Even the occasional water shower that he indulged in didn’t have water hot enough to feel pleasantly scalding against his skin, but the hot spring here was close. “Hot enough for you, you green blooded hobgoblin?” said a voice from behind Spock. As there was only one person on the Enterprise who dared to address Spock in that manner, there was no need to turn around to check and see who was speaking. The voice, normally filled with such ire when forced to speak with Spock, was considerably less heated than normal, presumably in keeping with their hosts’ request to set aside anger and grudges and replace them with kindness.   
  
“Quite so,” Spock managed to respond in a neutral voice, keeping his surprise from his voice and face. The doctor had made it abundantly clear during previous encounters that unless Spock was ill or bleeding copiously, he should stay out of Doctor McCoy’s path. While it seemed that Jim had managed to forgive him for his transgressions, Spock had returned the forgiveness, and a tentative friendship was in the process of forming, the doctor was what he’d heard Nurse Chapel refer to as a ’Momma Bear’ who was ‘not in the least interested in forgiving anyone or anything that had hurt his cubs‘. Gender confusion aside, Spock agreed that Nurse Chapel had a point. Unlike Captain Kirk, who had been willing to admit that they had both made large mistakes during the course of their brief acquaintance, and had asked that they set aside their difference in the interest of running the Enterprise well, Doctor McCoy was dead set on heaping all the blame on Spock’s side of the equation, despite Jim’s frequent protests that he and Spock had moved past it. Spock’s inquiries during the first months of their time on the Enterprise certainly hadn’t helped.   
  
Spock, of course, hadn’t exactly pushed the matter, as the dislike that Doctor McCoy had for him was most assuredly mutual; Jim, at least, was highly intelligent and though full of emotion, he was uniquely capable of blending logic and emotion into a practical tool that made him one of the best captains under whom Spock had been stationed in his entire life. By virtue of intuition and logic, he knew when to press for answers, when to take a step back, knowing, almost before Spock did, what was and was not alright in this stage in their friendship. If he was considerably more inclined to touch that Spock was strictly comfortable with, well, it was hardly the worst of oversights, and he was gradually growing more accustomed to the physical show of camaraderie then he could have imagined. Indeed, where once he could not have imagined the great friendship that his elder counterpart had waxed so eloquently on, now it seemed more like the light at the end of the tunnel, almost shockingly comfortable considering their starting point.   
  
In comparison, though Doctor McCoy was equally intelligent, he preferred to let his emotions rule. He was always pushing, pushing, pushing, trying to make Spock something he wasn’t, constantly demanding that he be more human, as if that were the only side of Spock that mattered. It rankled Spock terribly, and Jim’s attempts to reconcile the pair had been met with absolute disaster on all sides, though it could be argued that both Spock and Doctor McCoy were equally to blame for the shouting matches that so often ensued. If it weren’t for those flashes of absolute calm that Spock himself had seen, Spock would have done all he could to prevent his association with the doctor in any capacity.   
  
While he mused on his thoughts, the doctor grunted a little, and then dropped into the bath beside Spock, closing his eyes as he sank into the heat. Spock wasn’t sure what to make of their close proximity. From their earlier encounters, he would have expected the doctor to make his way to the other side of the large bath and stay there, so his interactions with the half-Vulcan would be as limited as possible. As he watched the doctor settle beside him, finding what position made him most comfortable, Spock couldn’t help raising his eyebrows. “The temperature is not too high for you?” he asked, in some surprise. Ensign Jacobson had attempted to sink into one of the pools earlier, and she’d yelped from the heat. Neither her fellow ensign nor the lieutenant had been able to stand it; neither had Captain Kirk, for that matter, and as a result, they were mostly partaking of the water that had been set aside for the occasion, which was considerably cooler. Spock had slipped into the water early on and sequestered himself in a corner so as to avoid an excessive number of requests to wash backs; his touch telepathy picked up every nuance of emotion from the I’Iaooii due to the bare skin to bare skin contact, and it had been wearing down his shields, but he had not thought it wise to refuse their advances in the interest of continuing relations.   
  
Doctor McCoy had seemed equally uncomfortable with the process of washing their hosts’ backs, for his own personal reasons, Spock was sure, but unlike his compatriots, who found the water far too hot for their physiology, the southern doctor seemed comfortable. Comfortable enough, it seemed, to sit beside Spock in congenial silence despite his earlier, mild insult and their past history of rancor.   
  
He sat in the bath for a long enough period of time that Spock felt curious as to why Doctor McCoy wasn’t overheating as a result, and said as much. Their hosts made inquiring sounds of their own, indicating their own interest. Spock found their inquiry pleasing to listen to; though their universal translator translated the sound to “Yes, we too are interested,” the fluting, pure sound of their inquiry was not unlike that of his Vulcan lyre’s highest note, and the noise rang throughout the room.   
  
“Yeah, Bones,” Jim added congenially, looking curious himself as he and the other crew members came to join them at the edge of the pool. Within moments, most of the room was paying attention to Doctor McCoy. Spock studied the doctor, wondering if the doctor’s red flush was more a result of the heat of the hot springs or the attention that was being directed towards him.   
  
“Nothing much to tell,” Doctor McCoy said gruffly, but in a tone that was loud enough to carry to everyone in the large room. He stared at the ceiling as though he was gazing at something else entirely, and his southern accent thickened as he said, “After the Eugenics wars, when Atlanta was bombed, a natural hot spring formed towards the edges of the city, though no one knows why, considering that there’s not exactly a whole lot of tectonic activity in Georgia. It’s pretty famous, since it’s the largest in the world. Anyways, me and my family went most years to the hot spring for vacation. You get used to the heat eventually. My dad-” here he blinked twice, rapidly, and Spock wondered if he had something in his eye, “My dad used to swear by the hot springs. He always said a little heat in the bones to melt away tension and worry was as good as anything medicine could do.”   
  
The I’Iaooii made an approving sound, a trilling noise. “That sounds like a saying we have here,” said I’Iaooii Vera in a warm voice after a few seconds of silence. “Heat is good for the health and for the wealth. May it settle in your bones through all things, and warm your heart when there is ice.”   
  
Doctor McCoy loosed a quick half-grin at the amiable people around him, and agreed with a short, quick nod. After soaking for a few moments, the southern doctor groaned a little, and stood, sending little waves lapping across the pool. “Alright, that’s enough heat even for my old bones,” he said with a second groan.   
  
“Don’t be pulling that ‘old’ crap with us, Bones,” Jim shouted from across the room, a laugh riding his words. “You’re what, thirty-three?” Jim looked considering for a moment and then said, “Nope, you’re right. You’re ancient, Bones.”   
  
Bones scowled. “I seem to recall that a certain starship captain is only three years from seeing the other side of thirty himself.”   
  
“La la la la!” Jim called back. “I can’t hear you.”   
  
Spock listened attentively, to see if the conversation raised any alarms, but clearly the I’Iaooii could sense the good humor that was undercurrent to the words; they seemed to have realized that the captain and doctor’s words were lighthearted far faster than Spock had, in the beginning, and they all gave the chittering, low noise that was their laugh, which set off Jim, who laughed brightly.   
  
Doctor McCoy grumbled a little more about hot-shot Starship Captains, and then wandered off to get ready for the ceremony, as did Captain Kirk and a majority of the I’Iaooii. Spock lingered for a few moments more in the blessed heat, reveling in the feeling of being warm from the inside out, something he so rarely had the pleasure of.   
  
When they finally assembled, the ceremony went through without a hitch. The speeches were appropriately optimistic, the gifts were received well on both ends, the treaty signed, all without a single explosion, attempted assassination or general mayhem. If it weren’t for the fact that Spock was not given to exaggeration, he might have said that he was about ready to die from the shock.   
  
Indeed, it was a sentiment shared by the rest of the landing party; they were tense, at first, waiting for the other shoe to drop. However, as the evening wore on and nothing disastrous happened, even the sardonic Doctor McCoy seemed to relax. It was then that Spock truly began waiting for a disruption, but when the evening passed without intergalactic disaster, and the following two days were equally calm, Spock found himself relaxing by slow degrees. Of course, to anyone else, it simply seemed as though he had a bamboo rod in his back instead of a titanium-plated steel one.   
  
Even so minute a change, however, had been noticed; Jim commented on Spock’s slight relaxation often and at high volume, though the rest of the crew looked at him as though he’d lost his mind, as they could detect no softening in the cool Vulcan exterior.   
  
Doctor McCoy agreed with his crewmate’s sentiments, but Spock caught the doctor eyeing him in a considering manner. Though his skin prickled under the doctor’s gaze, a small part of Spock hoped that this might be a turning point; they had managed to get through the last few days with remarkably little anger, and even Jim had noticed the drop in tension between them. Jim’s wistful smile and declaration that, “It would be nice if this lasts,” was enough that Spock held his peace, and believed that this could be continued in the future. His burgeoning friendship with Jim was important enough to him now that he wished to be able to spend extended periods of time with Jim’s oldest and dearest friend without having to suppress the urge to re-enact the day that Vulcan was sucked into the singularity and strangle the good doctor.   
  
When he’d communicated the way things were going last night to Nyota in a private communication, she had smiled beatifically and said simply, “That’s good. If you three can learn to trust each other and work together, we’ll be ready for anything. Between the three of you, we‘ve got logic and intelligence, conscience and compassion, and intuition and pragmatism. And if you tell anyone I complimented Kirk, I will gladly spread your entrails across the bridge.” Threat aside, Spock couldn’t help but agree with her; they were a balanced command team in ways that most other ships weren’t, even if the members of the Enterprise command team didn’t always mesh on a personal level.   
  
When Spock asked for Nyota’s advice on how to continue the neutrality, she had paused, considering the question carefully. Spock felt a rush of affection for her, for this brilliant and compassionate woman; she reminded him, in a strange way, of Jim. They carried that same fiercely intelligence air, but both personalities were tempered by empathy and an innate understanding of others. In them, he could see the direction that he wanted to grow- balancing emotion and logic carefully.   
  
Not that he’d ever admit it to the captain, of course.   
  
Said captain was, at the moment, a little too preoccupied with his upcoming performance to be worried about how his CMO and First Officer were treating each other. Instead, he worried them with his own concerns, biting his lip anxiously as he said in an unusually anxious tone, “I’ll do alright, right?”   
  
“Wrong, Jim. You’re going to fail and probably blow us all up at the same time.” When Jim looked at Doctor McCoy, stricken, the man rolled his eyes and huffed out a breath. “Dammit Jim, I’m a Doctor, not a damn cheering charm. Of course you’ll do fine! Perhaps you missed all the fawning adoration that was being piled on you the last couple of days, but I sure as hell didn’t. Short of mocking their hero, I don’t think there’s anything that you could do to piss them off. Though heaven knows what you did to deserve it, you’ve got charm,” Doctor McCoy finished gruffly, looking away.   
  
Jim’s smile blossomed, color coming back to his pale cheeks, and he turned to Spock. “Don’t you have anything to say?” He asked, and the smile turned to an impish grin.   
  
“I believe you are, as the saying goes, ‘fishing for a compliment’.”   
  
At Jim’s wounded face, Doctor McCoy burst out laughing, a hearty sound. “He’s got your number,” the doctor said through a grin as bright as Jim’s had been just a second ago. He eyed the half-Vulcan for a moment. “And if I didn’t know better, I would have said that was a joke,” he said in a quieter voice, the smile still playing around his mouth.   
  
With that peculiar pronouncement, he dragged Jim out to get ready, leaving Spock to stare off after him, feeling even more perplexed than he usually was in the doctor’s presence.   
  
The three joined each other and the other members of their party two hours later for the journey back to Iai Alooi from their residence in Siaoo, for another ritual bath and then getting ready for the evening’s activities, which involved copious body paint and fur for Jim, and a pleasant meal for the rest of them in celebration. Jim groaned a little, but after a quick promise to bring him something to eat, he trotted off easily enough with the members of the I’Iaooii that were to be helping him.   
  
Doctor McCoy and Spock, being the senior most members of the party besides Jim, were invited to bring out the final course of the meal, a large towering, wobbling concoction that Doctor McCoy said reminded him nothing so much as blue jello. He was in the middle of attempting to describe exactly what jello was, why it mattered that it was blue, and why anyone would voluntarily ingest hydrogenated collagen from animals when all hell broke loose.   
  
When the building first started shuddering, Spock believed it to be an attack, and despaired at the overconfidence that had encouraged him to leave his phaser in the quarters that that had been assigned, as he had considered his natural strength an equal to that of the I’Iaooii, and had no reason to expect danger from their hosts. After that instant passed, and the shaking only increased, Spock realized what must be happening. Doctor McCoy and Spock shared a brief glance; McCoy had spent three years in San Francisco and Spock had spent over decade with San Francisco as his area of residence. They recognized the rumbling feel of an earthquake. Immediately, they moved away from the enormous cart that held the final course, standing together in one corner of the room. The two I‘Iaooii, who had introduced themselves as I‘Iaooii Isa and I‘Iaooii Bran hurried to the other corner, their movements stilted as if they had not done this sort of thing before. Two rooms over, Spock could hear cries of dismay as pans and pots rattled ominously in the kitchen. Something enormous smashed, and the cries grew louder and more panicked. There were screams from the banquet hall too, cries of pain and worry as the entire building shuddered, stone grinding out a warning.   
  
It wasn’t warning enough, however. What happened next reminded Spock of nothing so much as Vulcan’s earth, Vulcan’s sky collapsing in on itself in one long, continuous sound. The building shuddered, tilted dramatically, and somehow the room was falling under Spock’s feet, the cries of the I’Iaooii ringing in his ears, and Doctor McCoy’s perversely loud gasp that Spock knew was in actuality a sound that could barely be heard.   
  
And then there was darkness


	3. Chapter 3

He groaned as he awoke. He couldn’t help it, couldn’t repress the sound. His body hadn’t felt this battered or bruised since the Narada incident, and the ache filled every joint and muscle in his body, though no bones seemed to be broken or major wounds bleeding. It was un-Vulcan, perhaps, to show pain if one could help it, but Spock couldn’t; as he sat up, a low pained hiss escaped his body. He blinked once or twice, but even his sharp eyes could barely pick up his surroundings. Above him was a shallow rock overhang, perhaps two feet above his head, which had sheltered him from the worst of the damage. He blinked rapidly as he took stock of his own body, checking the damage in more details

“Spock?”

That was Doctor McCoy. Spock breathed deeply once, relaxing his tense muscles so they would not scream in protest when he next moved.

“Spock?” It was Doctor McCoy again, though barely two seconds had passed, and there was something in his voice that had Spock answering immediately, instinctually this time.

“Yes, Doctor?”

A low, hushed sound of absolute relief filled the dark room, which took all the sting from the words that followed. “Dammit, are you trying to give me a fucking heart attack? When I say your damn name, answer, so I know I’m not talking to another unconscious body. And don’t move. I’m not very close to you, I think, and there’s not light enough for me to see how injured you are even if I was, so it’s best to just wait for the rescuers.”

“The earthquake,” Spock said aloud, as his memories rushed back. “I assume that the building toppled as a result, and that we are now buried in the rubble?”

“I’d say that’s a damn fine guess. It’s ironic, is what it is, because the one time that we’re all here is the one time that an earthquake decides to hit, for all that there‘s no history of earthquakes in this region. I always knew that Jim‘s bad luck was legendary, but this takes the fucking cake.” Doctor McCoy growled, sounding inexplicably irritated. Before Spock could point out the illogic of bad luck, though he would admit that too many unfortunate- and fortunate- occurrences happened in the vicinity of the captain for it to be a coincidence, Doctor McCoy continued in a slightly calmer voice, “Like I said, no moving because I don’t know how bad you’re hurt, and no climbing through or dislodging the rubble in some sort of misguided effort to save yourself. Just sit tight and try not to move. There’s a pretty large crack right near me, and it’s blowin’ in wind, so at least you don’t have to worry about suffocatin’ down here. I imagine you’re not too far from the surface, either, since the breeze is pretty strong. So the only thing you have to worry about before the rescue is hypothermia- which, thanks to your green blood, is a very real possibility- or dying of thirst, which will hit you long before the starvation does. Assuming, of course that you aren’t already dyin’ of some sorta of injury.”

“No, I am not injured,” Spock said calmly. “Exceedingly sore, scratched and bruised, but nothing that cannot be repaired easily enough with rest. Currently the most debilitating injury I am suffering appears to be a headache.” He shifted again. “I am also not pinned. Where are you?” Even as he said it, he sat up. The purple stone that had shielded him from the worst brushed the top of his head, and he looked to the large, free space on his right. He appeared to be in one corner of a large, roughly rectangular chamber in the rubble, lying in a stone alcove. In the one corner lay the body of one of the I’Iaooii, though Spock didn’t recognize them. His eyes were becoming more accustomed to the lighting, but his visibility remained fairly low compared to his normal standards. After ensuring that nothing would move should he shift his weight, he carefully stood, moving out from under the alcove. No broken bones, as he had assured Doctor McCoy, merely bone-deep bruising and a particularly nasty scrape on his arm, which had already stopped bleeding, as well as the headache that he had previously mentioned to the doctor. The little cave was twice as tall as Spock was, perhaps forty feet or so in length and another fifteen in width. The floor was relatively clear, if tilted at a thirty degree angle that made walking difficult. A slab of stone made a ceiling to their prison, though the opposite wall seemed to be cracked, slightly, having buckled a little during the earthquake. It seemed to be stable for the moment. The cracked wall must be the source of the breeze Doctor McCoy had spoken of.

It was then that he realized that during the course of his observation of their stone prison, Doctor McCoy had not answered him.

“Doctor McCoy?” Spock asked, voice sounding too large in the room. He could hear nothing else but the slightly raspy sound of what he assumed what Doctor McCoy’s breathing. “I am coming to find you. I am neither pinned nor injured, so it will be most logical to be in the same place as you, that we might ensure each other’s care and survival during our wait for rescue.”

“No!” the doctor cried, and Spock was momentarily startled at how the sound carried in the small chamber, pressing like a weight against his skin.

In a rare flash of insight, Spock put together the clues- the doctor’s insistence that he stay where he was, his slurring voice, the use of the singular ‘you’ when speaking of the rescue, and the reason that the doctor had not tracked Spock down himself, considering how close they were when the earthquake shook. He swallowed hard.

“Doctor McCoy, how badly are you injured?”

There was a long, heavy moment of silence. “Not too bad,” Both of them knew what the words were.

A lie.

It was a lie that Spock would not let exist, _could_ not let exist, not when knowing the truth could be the difference between life and death. Spock’s keen eyes picked up movement in the opposite corner despite the darkness of the space. Being careful, he paced across the stones, crossing the dangerous ground in seconds, and stared down in shock at Doctor McCoy, who was lying crushed up against the opposite wall.

The enormous cart that had once carried the dessert that Spock and Doctor McCoy were to bring out lay in shambles, with the exception of one of the metal legs, which currently had the doctor pinned to the wall through his upper thigh. The wound was bleeding sluggishly, indicating that it hadn’t hit the major artery, but the fact that it was still bleeding at all was an indicator that McCoy was in real danger of bleeding out, a fact supported by the small pool of blood beneath him. Rocks covered the his lower legs, while his right arm was clearly broken in at least three places. From his labored breathing, which was modulated so as not to expand his rib cage too much, Spock wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that his ribs, if not broken, were heavily bruised. What skin Spock could see was mottled with bruised, the rest of it absurdly pale.

“Dammit! Dammit, Spock, I told you to stay the fuck where you were!” Doctor McCoy growled, voice rough and edged with the pain that he could no longer hide, not now when he could feel Spock’s dark gaze lingering over every inch of his skin. He didn’t meet Spock’s eyes, just breathed as shallowly as he could manage, clenching and unclenching his fist randomly. There was something wrong about this picture, truly wrong- Doctor McCoy was just that, a doctor, a saver of lives, a healer. For him to die like this, here- Spock felt a rare stirring of sorrow in his chest, before he drew himself out of his reverie and returned his complete, undivided attention to Doctor McCoy.

Spock first dismissed the doctor’s comment as the height of illogic and therefore beneath the justification of a response. Instead, he began following all the basic protocol for keeping someone injured in the field alive until proper medical help could be given. Doctor McCoy was alive and conscious, so it would not be necessary to check his breathing or heart; Spock could hear every rasping breath perfectly clear, though the doctor’s probably sluggish heartbeat was buried beneath the wind, grumblings of the rocks around them and the sound of Spock and Doctor McCoy‘s small movements.

“Spock!” Doctor McCoy exclaimed as Spock ripped his Starfleet formal uniform without warning, carefully fashioning the cloth into a tourniquet. The word was choked, pained, and the doctor shut his eyes, entire body tensing as the cloth was tied off above the metal. The doctor heaved in as much air as his damaged ribs would allow him, trying to muster the energy to speak, Spock assumed. “Enough, Spock! No more! You’re going to need whatever warmth your clothing can conserve to survive. Don’t-” the doctor stuttered, words becoming more accented, southern burr surrounding each word. “Don’t w-waste that here. You’re gonna need it.”

This time Spock answered, since it would be more prudent if the doctor didn’t fight him the entire time that he was trying to enhance his chances of survival, “Doctor McCoy, I believe that if I allowed you to die here, Captain Kirk would find an opportunity as soon as possible to make sure I am sent out an airlock without the benefit of a suit.”

Spock started at the sound that came out of Doctor McCoy’s mouth. It may have been a laugh, in another life, but the sound was too bitter, to dark, altogether too sorrowful to be called that now. It turned quickly into a pained wheeze, and Spock was oddly relieved when it no longer grated against his nerves. “Jimmy can’t always get what he wants, darlin’,” Doctor McCoy drawled, that twanging accent pulling at the vowels. He closed his eyes, loosing an exhausted sigh. “It’s bad for him.”

“Then you must survive and return, that you might save him when he has once again decided to heed no one’s advice but his own,” Spock urged. There was a flutter of something deep in his chest- worry? anxiety? sorrow?- but there was no time for that, not now.

Doctor McCoy’s eyes slid open slowly, taking a second too long to focus. He blinked at Spock for a few more seconds, heavy slow motions of his eyelids. His eyes flickered over Spock’s face, and Spock wasn’t sure what he was looking for, as Spock had found nothing more than a slight bruise over his left cheekbone on his face.

Whatever reason Doctor McCoy had for gazing at Spock so intensely, Spock found himself uncomfortable with that half-lidded gaze. He quashed the vague embarrassment immediately, returning Doctor McCoy‘s gaze evenly. “Shit,” Doctor McCoy breathed. “Damn it all to hell, you green-blooded hobgoblin. Dammit, dammit, dammit!” He seemed to exhaust himself for a moment, eyes sliding close again.

“Alright,” he said finally, just as Spock was on the verge of speaking once more, “You win, Spock. The tourniquet will work as well as anything, but if you find something else- no, not your shirt, you fool!” Doctor McCoy interjected when Spock reached once more for his clothing, “If you can find something to pad against the wound itself to help stem the blood flow, that would be good. The rocks too- you’ll need to move them off my legs, to see how much damage is down there. If there’s bleeding you’re going to have to try and stem that too. I can’t tell you anything, because I-” here Doctor McCoy paled and swallowed hard twice before he continued, “I, uh, can’t feel anything below about my waist, but I can’t tell you if it’s because of the rocks or because of the wound. Look around for some sort of planks that might be suitable for a splint. From the looks of my arm, it’s not a compound fracture, probably just a clean split, but a splint to keep it in place is probably a good idea, especially…” Doctor McCoy licked his lips, trembling slightly.

Fear, Spock realized, was the most likely cause, but now was not the time to put undue stress on what would be a valid source of fear for a human. “Especially in case of aftershocks,” Spock said for him.

The smile that graced Doctor McCoy’s face lasted perhaps half a second, and was no more than the brief twitch of his lips, but Spock somehow got the impression of a silent thanks nonetheless. “Yeah. You’ll also have to keep an eye out for shock.” Doctor McCoy met Spock’s eyes evenly. “If I go into shock, and we’re still not out of here, that’s endgame. If that happens, don’t bother trying to…” the trembling increased, and Doctor McCoy licked his lips again. “Just…don’t. Do what you can to get yourself out of here. You might not be as badly injured, but the cold’s going to affect you more because of your body temperature.”

Spock knew logically that his heart couldn’t have squeezed in reflex to Doctor McCoy’s words, but it certainly felt like that. However, he did not offer platitudes. He did not have the skill with words to properly reassure Doctor McCoy as Jim might have, and in any case, Spock was not accustomed to offering empty hope. He and the doctor knew the numbers equally well. They knew how likely it was to be rescued before or after death from all manner of causes, they knew the odds of being found, and they knew the chances were constantly dropping the more time passed.

It would do no good to lay those numbers before Doctor McCoy now.

Instead, Spock applied himself to following Doctor McCoy’s orders. As much as it horrified him, that he was forced to remove the clothing from the dead I’Iaooii in their prison, as clothing would do nothing for the dead. He used the heavier outer robe as a blanket for Doctor McCoy, as well as the pants, to help him conserve what heat he could. The shirt was used to help stem the blood flow around the wound itself, which Spock examined in more detail. Doctor McCoy kept up a constant litany of questions, including the size, shape, and apparent depth of the wound. The puncture wound was four centimeters in diameter, and to all appearances missed the vital arteries, or else Doctor McCoy would be dead. Spock could find no boards or other substances, however, to use as splints for the doctor‘s broken arm. When he relayed the news to the doctor, he simply nodded, continuing his litany of questions.

Doctor McCoy asked about Spock too, questioning to see if he had full mobility, how bad the bruises were, and so on. Spock answered the rapid fire questions as fully as he was able to without lying, as he noticed that Doctor McCoy relaxed when Spock’s answers indicated that he had suffered from nothing he couldn’t recover from.

Spock wasn’t sure how to handle that relaxation. It seemed at first to him as though Doctor McCoy was relaxing because he was in his element, so to speak. He knew what Spock’s answers meant, knew how to diagnose Spock’s injuries. Spock also thought that perhaps being able to focus on him allowed Doctor McCoy to put his own injuries out of his mind. It was only after the fifth variation on the same question- “I know you goddamn Vulcans can control your body to insane degrees, but you can be sure that you didn’t miss any broken bones, no internal bleeding? Come here, let me check you!”- that Spock suspected that Doctor McCoy might be actually worried about him personally, that he might wish to know that Spock was well for his own sake.

Spock wasn’t sure to how to respond to that, so he simply answered the questions clearly and slowly as he worked to remove the stones from the lower part of Doctor McCoy’s body. There was a brief, terrible moment where Doctor McCoy absolutely screamed at the removal of the stones, body jerking spasmodically. The few breaths after that had a hitch at the end, indicating that the doctor was barely holding back tears. “Leg,” he gritted out. “Broken. No more.”

Spock agreed instantly, careful to keep the remaining stones supporting the injured limb. He had no wish to cause the doctor undue pain. Though the scream had long since dissipated, the echo of it still scraped against Spock’s nerves. While the doctor remained still, trying to catch his breath, Spock piled some of the rocks he’d removed against the cracks in the wall, being as careful as he could manage. They need the breeze to replenish their air, certainly, but Doctor McCoy did not need to have a cold wind blowing constantly at his back. It would only hinder his ability to retain heat.

When Doctor McCoy had been treated to the best of his abilities, Spock looked at the doctor in an enquiring fashion. “Okay.” Doctor McCoy looked as though he might want to be embarrassed, but the tell-tale blush that rose on most human’s cheeks as a sign was absent, most likely a result off the blood loss that Doctor McCoy had suffered. Then he let lose a long exhale and met Spock’s eyes. “Ya need to get over here, so we can share some heat,” Doctor McCoy stated as bluntly as he could. His accent, usually so thin a veneer over his words, was dripping thick and fast on each sentence, and Spock began to believe that the pain of his injuries and his tiredness were strengthening the accent.

Knowing that there wasn’t enough room for Spock to lay at Doctor McCoy’s back, so as to protect him from the wind, Spock laid down at the doctor’s front, making sure that their limbs were arranged in such a way as to bring maximum comfort to both parties; the doctor was tucked securely underneath the robe Spock had taken, and Spock pressed close to his front. The pants, which had served as another covering, became a pillow for the pair, so they were not laying their skulls on hard stone.

The doctor hissed several times during the motion, and Spock could practically see the curses on the doctor’s tongue, though thankfully he resisted the urge to cuss Spock out; they both knew that this had to happen to better the odds of their survival. Doctor McCoy was limp and sweating by the end of it. In what little light there was, his face looked like some of the centuries old bone china that his mother had once kept in a cabinet in their home on Vulcan, the set that had been inherited through seven generations, which had been lost in the singularity.

Now, with Doctor McCoy’s face six-point-three centimeters from his own, Spock found himself wishing that he’d studied more medicine and xenobiology during his years at Starfleet. The Vulcan education system had been more concerned with teaching its students how to examine neutron and anti-neutron interactions, and while every Starfleet student had to take a basic medical course, Spock could have taken more- he’d had the time, just not the inclination. He hadn’t cared for the idea of taking care of someone else like that, personal and impersonal at the same time. He wished now that he had cared, just a little bit more, cared enough to be able to do more than just what was taught in that course. He knew how to administer a hypo, knew how to bandage a wound and set a broken bone, knew how to perform CPR on seventeen different species, but he couldn’t stitch a shirt, let alone a wound. He couldn’t recognize more than thirty basic diseases on sight. He couldn’t use a regenerator any more than he could tell what sort of head injuries were the most dangerous. Perhaps here and now it didn’t matter, since they didn’t have the supplies anyways, but in his mind’s eye, Spock could see Doctor McCoy, Jim, Nyota, Mr. Sulu, Mr. Chekov, Mr. Scott, injured and himself unable to do anything to ease the pain.

Why those people, and not the entire ship- well, Spock didn’t dare investigate that thought too closely.

Instead, he studied Doctor McCoy again. “We must speak,” Spock told him. “In order to help prevent hypothermia and to help offset any effects of a concussion that could surface as a result of sleep.”

Doctor McCoy shifted a little, nodding. “Yeah. Do you want to start, or shall I?”

Spock cast about for something neutral to say. Spock, despite what Doctor McCoy may have sometimes thought, was not completely unaware of social conventions, of what feelings looked like on the faces of others, of true and faked mockery and indignation. After his childhood on Vulcan, it could almost be said that he had made a study of true and faked emotions. Too many people on his homeworld and on Starfleet looked to him as some kind of pariah, as someone to be mocked, someone to be conned into doing assignments for, not with. He had said it to Jim once- and once only, when they were tired and exhausted and things that shouldn’t have been pouring out were- that one of the things he hated most was being labeled by his species. He was neither Human nor Vulcan, that part of his childhood taunts was true, but he had always wanted to be more than his blood. He did not wish to be defined as Human by the Vulcans and Vulcan by the Humans. Perhaps that’s why the bridge mattered- to them, he was Spock, no more, no less. Perhaps that, too, was why he found Doctor McCoy fascinating. With Doctor McCoy, Spock was hated for his actions, for his decisions, not because being Vulcan was somehow less than being Human, for all the doctor growled about green blood and pointed ears.

Spock found it was the sort of hate that he could live with, for the most part.

So when he opened his mouth, what he intended to say was, “Why did you choose to become a doctor?” because that seemed to be a suitably neutral topic in Spock’s opinion, because humans, as a general rule, seemed to like being asked about themselves. It also seemed like the sort of question that wouldn’t incur Doctor McCoy’s wrath, which would be good, considering the situation.

Unfortunately, what came out was, “How did you meet Jim Kirk?”

Doctor McCoy opened his mouth, shut it, blinked four times in rapid succession, and then said intelligently, “Uh, what?”

Spock considered rescinding the question. Then he took another look at the pale, wan face of the man in front of him, and the fascination he’d felt since that first time in the operating room came back. He was hyper aware of reality; Jim Kirk may have been given to believe in hope where there was none, or fighting against all odds, but Spock was not. He knew that every moment that passed resulted in a little more blood draining from the doctor’s body, labored his breathing that much more. Even Spock didn’t have much hope, due to the coldness he could already feel seeping into his fingers and toes. And though the doctor might hate him, Spock couldn’t help but think of the man that looked at the ceiling and spoke of his home with reverence and inexplicable loss, of the strange amicability from the past few days.

He wanted to know more. It was that plain and simple. If they were to die here, Spock refused to go without a fight, without learning that last bit of knowledge he might ever get.

So Spock said, quietly, intensely, hoping that somehow the doctor would understand what he meant, “I have heard from Jim Kirk how you met. I am interested in hearing your side of the story, doctor.”

The look Doctor McCoy sent him was equal parts disbelief, confusion, and a sort of shell-shocked wonder that said, “Did that phrase _really_ just come out of your mouth?” It made Spock more grateful than Doctor McCoy could ever believe. For that instant, Spock was back on the Enterprise, finishing his salad while the captain sat between the two and alternately egged them on and diffused tension.

For that instant, Spock was as much home as he could ever hope to be again.

Spock just waited, staring at the southern doctor before those dark brows shot up. “Alright, then,” Doctor McCoy said. “Well. I’ve been asked weirder questions.” He let out a slow breath then began, in a voice so thick with a southern drawl that Spock had to concentrate to discern the individual words. “It all started the flight out to San Francisco. I was…” Doctor McCoy appeared to be choosing his words carefully, “was assigned to a seat towards the back, with those full-panel windows that they use for in-orbit transits. I was a little…discombobulated at the time, we’ll say, and I had no interest in dying one of the many, horrible deaths that can occur around windows in a shuttle when you’re traveling at three times the speed of sound. So I went to the bathroom for liftoff, thinking that if I couldn’t see it, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.”

Spock could find numerous pieces of illogic with that plan of action, and could quote statistics from the last fifteen years about starship safety in general, and the Enterprise’s safety specifically, but managed to remain quiet. “Unfortunately,” Doctor McCoy continued in a surprisingly rueful tone, “It didn’t occur to me that they would check the bathrooms before the flight took off. So there I was, being chased out of the bathroom by a woman half my height who looked about ready to take me down.” He attempted a smile, as though the comment was supposed to be humorous, but Spock didn’t see it. The doctor didn’t push it; clearly, he didn’t think it was that funny either. “Finally, she told me that either I was going to sit down, or she was going to make me sit down. And well, I learned from my divorce that the woman is always right.” Now he chuckled, but it was dark and brooding. “I sat down next to this blond-haired, blue-eyed kid that looked like he could use a good night’s sleep, an antibiotic hypo and some sense knocked into his head, if the bruises on him were any indication. I probably didn’t look much better, to be frank, but my mind wasn’t exactly on the job. Whisky does that to a man, and I’d been drinking the better part of three days by that point. So I sat my ass down, leaned over, and told him that I might throw up on him.” Doctor McCoy shook his head a little, lost in his memories.

“Damn fool gave me the strangest look, like I’d lost my mind, and told me some bullshit about shuttles being pretty safe, something to that effect, and I told him not to bother, because space was ‘disease and darkness wrapped in danger and silence’. Kid never let me live it down, and quotes it at me at every opportunity.” Spock knew that to be true, as he’d hear Jim say it more than once.

  
“Then we exchanged names, I told him a bit about my divorce, and next thing you know I’ve become the sidekick to a crazy young cadet with fewer brain cells than God gave rocks, to all appearances. But Jim is…Jim. He’s just something else entirely.”

That was a statement that Spock could agree with whole heartedly. He’d never met a human quite like James Tiberius Kirk, equal part flirtatious and intelligent, charismatic and arrogant. “So…” Doctor McCoy drawled, endeavoring to sound relatively normal. “Does this mean that it’s my turn to ask a question?”

“It is.”

Doctor McCoy seemed to meditate on the question he wished to ask, before saying, in a rather guarded tone, “How did you meet Nyota?”

Like Spock’s question, Doctor McCoy’s inquiry was not so personal as to be rude, but personal enough to show that Doctor McCoy didn’t mind what Spock started, baring themselves equally before these questions. Spock considered the question carefully. It was, in fact, an exact mirror to Spock’s own question. Doctor McCoy and Nyota, Spock knew, were friends of a sort, bonded together from mutual exposure to Jim Kirk. That friendship had only deepened on the Enterprise. Nyota even professed her desire to keep the doctor as a friend even after their time on the Enterprise. They met weekly to converse, and Spock knew that Nyota had already shared their first encounter. However, as Spock had asked the same question, it was only fair to answer fully.

“We met,” Spock began, “During my second year as an instructor for the Academy. I was teaching both introductory Vulcan and High Vulcan-”

He was interrupted by a hiss from Doctor McCoy and a rather amused sounding, “Ouch.”

“Doctor, are you experiencing pain?” he questioned.

Doctor McCoy rolled his eyes a little. “Yes, I am.” He said bluntly. “However, my ouch was more in sympathy to you. Though God knows that you‘re probably the last to want somethin’ so human as sympathy.”

“As I have assured you several times, I am not seriously injured.” Spock took a breath, intending to continue and ignore the doctor‘s comment, but Doctor McCoy snorted. It was not his usual heavy, full sound, the breath barely brushing across Spock’s cheeks.

“Not about your injuries, dammit!” Doctor McCoy muttered. His accent lingered on the ‘a’ and ‘m’ in dammit, slurring the word. “About the classes.”

“For what reason?”

“Starfleet doesn’t have too many doctors comin’ in. Too many of the people interested in medicine want to be in the private sector, since they’ll make a helluva lot more money doing the same damn thing, and they don’t have the risk of bein’ blown up in space. Even more people’ll take the courses cause they couldn’t get in anywhere else. So while Starfleet has enough people of various races to fulfill the twenty-to-one ratio of crewmembers to doctors on starships, instructors are usually in short supply. They’ve got a few steadies, o’ course, but they snap up people like me. Since I didn’t have to do regular medical trainin’ on top of xenobiology and the like, they got me to teach basics courses. Ignorant fuckers don’t have two brain cells to rub together and start a fire, for the most part.” He looked as though he would continue his rant, but his breathing was becoming strained again, and his face looked paler than ever. “You were sayin’?”

Spock picked up the thread of his first encounter with Nyota, though not without first silently agreeing that perhaps some Starfleet students should have a better idea of their skill set before entering certain classes, his class included. It would have saved him many a night struggling to coax a phrase out of a throat that was simply not meant to produce such sounds.

He felt as though agreeing out loud with the doctor might result in the man prematurely going into shock, however, so he held his tongue.

“Indeed. Nyota was in my introductory course for the Vulcan language. She, as well as a few others, had petitioned to be placed into higher classes. However, at that time, we were involved in reorganizing the course requirements.” What Spock didn’t mention was that they’d been reorganizing them because he’d arrived as an instructor. He was the only native Vulcan speaker in the department, despite the Vulcans being one of the founding members of the Federation. Vulcans didn’t seem to be overly interested in the Federation, these days. While the other instructors were all fluent in Vulcan, none understood all the nuances that came from speaking a language for one’s entire life. For this reason, he had been working to redesign the class to place as much emphasis on context, culture and sound as on the grammatical structure of the language.

“It was for this reason that no placement tests were being given. As a result, those who had previous experience in the Vulcan language believed it would be an ‘easy A’, I believe it is called.”

Doctor McCoy snorted again. “With you as a teacher? Yeah, right.”

Spock inclined his head briefly in acknowledgement of the comment. “Indeed, I found that from the first class, many of the students were challenged in a greater proportion than they thought they would be. Nyota was the exception.”

“She usually is,” Doctor McCoy agreed, then shivered, eyes slipping closed for a moment. Illogical though it might be, Spock wished that the doctor would allow Spock to give him his dress uniform jacket as a covering, as Spock was less likely to be adversely effected by the cold short-term. However, he knew that the doctor would not agree, and thus did not mention it.

“Indeed. After that first week, she arranged a time to meet with me privately, so as to persuade me that her knowledge of Vulcan was such that she did not need to be placed in that class. She was convinced that her understanding of standard Vulcan was beyond all but the upper levels of the courses offered. After meeting with her privately and conducting an hour long interview in Vulcan on a diverse range of topics, I found her understanding of standard Vulcan to be adequate. I had believed, from the manner in which she spoke, that she simply wished to advance to the upper level classes. Instead, she also discussed both enrolling in my High Vulcan course and the possibility of meeting separately to discuss pre-Reformation Vulcan. This was in addition to the standard communication technology courses, as well as upper level Klingon and rudimentary Italian, Andorian, and Ivarnin.” Though Spock attempted to keep most of the awe he felt for her out of his voice, from Doctor McCoy’s slight smile, he hadn’t succeeded as much as he might have wished.

The doctor closed his eyes, slight smile still on his face, “Now your turn again.”

So it went, the exchanging of one question for another, personal but never intrusive. Even so, Spock found it increasingly difficult to disguise the fact that despite their close proximity, he was struggling to retain body heat. His fingers, in particular were stiff, swollen, and acutely painful, as well as shockingly pale as his capillaries contracted to conserve what heat they could. Spock had to resist the urge to press completely against the doctor, unwilling to jar his injured body, even if Spock’s own was aching ferociously in the face of the cold, to the point that he was leaning towards every exhale the Doctor McCoy made, unconsciously seeking even the tiniest vestiges of heat. Doctor McCoy wasn’t much better. Several times he had lost track of the conversation, forgetting that it was his turn to ask a question, or forgetting midway through his response that he hadn‘t finished. Doctor McCoy had paled so much from blood loss that Spock had no idea as to how the doctor was clinging to consciousness. He no longer seemed to have any control of his body, if his absolutely limp arms and legs were any indication. His eyes kept slipping closed as well, and where his breaths had once been loud and rasping between them, now they were barely perceptible.

Spock had found it increasingly difficult to keep Doctor McCoy focused on the conversation. He found himself resorting to increasingly intimate questions, which required Doctor McCoy to focus fully on the question at hand to answer it. Thus, Spock learned more about Doctor McCoy’s divorce and child than had been shared with anyone but the captain; Spock could do no less than share equally intimate information, speaking in quiet, haunted tones about his childhood on Vulcan, of his family, and accepting Doctor McCoy’s simple, slurred, and accented apology that drifted in the air.

Somehow, it eventually devolved into a monologue, with Spock pausing at opportune moments to allow for Doctor McCoy to respond in monosyllables to prove that he was still awake and listening, as he didn’t have enough focus for anything else. Even so, from Doctor McCoy’s answers, he was only half aware of his surroundings, of what Spock was saying. Spock too was beginning to feel more sluggish, more exhausted, more and more willing to just close his eyes for five minutes to get some rest, but he was too aware of the dangers involved to fall prey to such desires.

He paused in his speaking again, waiting for a response from Doctor McCoy.

Nothing.

Spock had to quash rising panic, breath coming quicker as he said in a louder voice, “Doctor McCoy?”

Still nothing.


	4. Chapter 4

A shot of adrenaline had Spock jolting into action, forcing his heavy limbs to support him so he could shake the shoulder of the too wan, too injured man before him. “Doctor McCoy!” Spock exclaimed sharply as he shook the man’s shoulder again. It jostled the doctor’s broken arm and the doctor jolted forward with a cry of agony.  
  
Spock froze as the doctor let out a series of pained grunts, his free hand clutching the upper arm of his broken one. A few tears leaked out as the doctor shuddered. “I’m sorry,” Spock said instantly, remorse welling in his chest. “I did not intend to cause you pain, but I have done so anyways.”  
  
“S’fine,” Doctor McCoy grunted. “S’fine. Just…careful. Be…careful.”  
  
Spock instinctively smoothed Doctor McCoy’s hair back, as his mother had done so often for him. The doctor leaned into what was, for him, a pleasantly warm touch in comparison to his own clammy skin. Spock, his shields damaged from the cold and his own aches and bone-deep pains, was overwhelmed by a deluge of pain, fear, thankfulness that someone was here, gratefulness for Spock’s touch, worry, and a soul-deep agony that this was the end, that it would stop here when there was so much more to do, to see, to discover.  
  
Spock jerked away as though bitten, but Doctor McCoy’s only movement was those dark eyes sliding open, focusing slowly on Spock. _Good, then he remains cognizant_ , Spock thought, but the thought was offhand, barely recognized before it was dismissed the minute that the doctor began speaking.  
  
“You’ll…you’ll havta watch ova Jimmy…” Doctor McCoy mumbled. “Fool boy…after his da, wants…indestructible. You gotta promise. Ain’t…none that can do…what I did, butcha gotta…try. Tell him…sorry, love him. Tell Jo that…she’ll always…she’ll always…my baby girl. Think…about her all the time. Miss her. Love her. Sorry…I won’t be there…Joss never let me…tell her…make sure she’s safe. Promise, Spock. Both of them. They’re family.” Spock stared at Doctor McCoy as the man cried, silent tears dripping down his face. Spock would have said something, wanted to say something, to say that there was nothing to worry, that they would be rescued, but he couldn’t lie, not here, not now.  
  
“Doctor,” he urged, hands coming up to touch Doctor McCoy, sending waves of reassurance through his touch as if he were a touch-telepath that could utilize such things. “Doctor, if I listen to you, you have to do something for me.”  
  
Doctor McCoy was still staring at him, but though the gaze was focused on Spock, Doctor McCoy’s attention was entirely inward. “What?” he mumbled.  
  
“A question, Doctor McCoy.”  
  
“Okay. But…but tell Nyota, Sulu…Chekov…Christine, M’Benga…I’ll miss them. Sorry…I like them, even…if…even if…” Doctor McCoy took a deep breath that hitched as his ribs protested, “even if it didn’t…seem like it. Good kids. They’re…good kids. All of ‘em…even if they’re…not kids. Brave. Good people. Wish I knew…more like ‘em.”  
  
Something in Spock rejected the words, tried desperately not to hear them, because Doctor McCoy was simply not allowed to die on his watch, not if he didn’t want the strange mixed-up group of people who Spock looked upon with more emotion than he dared to admit even to himself to be irreparably damaged by the loss. So instead he said stridently, “Doctor, I will convey your messages in the event of your death,” because he could do no less for this man than acknowledge that he was dying, but he did not stop there. “However, I feel it may be more prudent for you to share such conclusions on your own time, as I feel I am not suited to the task of conveying your emotions.”  
  
Doctor McCoy stared at him for a moment, then let out a little huff of air. “I s’ppose not…I think you‘d do ‘lright, though. No…no worse than…I‘d do, even if you're Vulcan.”  
  
Spock took a deep breath, inexplicably warmed by the compliment, odd as it was, but there was no time to dwell on that. Spock knew that at best, the doctor had another half hour of consciousness, followed by another three or four hours, at most, before he bled out and died, long before the cold or dehydration could kill him. If Doctor McCoy was truly to die here, Spock could not let him pass on with questions still unanswered. That old obsession that Spock had been nursing off and on for one year, seven months and fifteen days flared again, and Spock was almost choked with the desire to understand the man dying in front of him.  
  
“Doctor McCoy…” Spock began, and then paused, unsure as to where to begin, because his thoughts were swirling about, in a half-formed chaotic manner that would have made Jim grin and his father raise an eyebrow. Without conscious thought, the words just flowed out of him. He spoke about the first time he’d noticed the change, about when the doctor made that change. He spoke about how he didn’t understand it, how he wanted to, because more than understanding the mechanism of the change, he wanted to understand Doctor McCoy, the man who Jim Kirk would die for- the man who was as much a father as doctor to so many on board. Spock didn’t quite say that they could be friends, that the possibility existed precisely because they were so opposite, and he could never admit that when they argued the finer point of logic and emotion, Spock found the conversation intellectually stimulating and well-argued. Spock hoped that the doctor would pick up on everything he wasn’t saying, however, even in his state.  
  
He had to.  
  
And when Spock had talked himself out, when the deluge of words slowed and stopped, he wasn’t expecting the anger blazing in Doctor McCoy’s eyes, fever bright in his face. Spock didn’t understand where he’d gone wrong, but even he could read the finer points of human emotion after having spent so much time with them, both in San Francisco and on the Enterprise. “Doctor McCoy?” he said as evenly as he could manage.  
  
“You damn fool,” Doctor McCoy snarled- or rather, would have snarled, had he had the energy to properly express his ire. Even so, for the first time in several hours, Spock could see the true Doctor McCoy peeking out of the wan and exhausted shell that his injuries had forced him into. “You asshole. You’d really be so cruel as to bring up my greatest failing now, when I’m dying? You‘re like a dog with a bone about this- you can‘t just leave well enough alone!”  
  
Spock didn’t understand, and said as much.  
  
“Of course you don’t understand, you green-blooded hobgoblin. How could you, of all people, understand why-” Doctor McCoy cut himself off, glancing away from Spock.  
  
“Why what?” Spock asked quietly. They were speaking from the top of an emotional precipice, Spock could tell, and his next words were carefully chosen to throw them off.  
  
“Explain it to me, Doctor McCoy. If you do not, how can I be expected to understand?”  
  
Spock could almost taste when the air changed between them, but Doctor McCoy nevertheless insisted on putting up a fight. “Because it’s not logical,” the doctor shot back, as furious as his injuries permitted him to be. “Because it’s full of emotion, and personal connections. You know, the little things about life that Vulcans like to ignore as if they don’t exist. Your people won’t change, won’t grow-”  
  
Spock just stared at the doctor, silent in face of the barrage of insults and more upset by the words than he was willing to admit. Doctor McCoy seemed to falter in the face of Spock’s steadiness, and he looked away first, muttering something under his breath that only vaguely resembled, “Sorry.”  
  
“Tell me,” Spock whispered into the space between them, and it was truly a request, not a command.  
  
Doctor McCoy sagged, all the fight leeching from him. “I…have to.” He defended himself. He tried to muster anger as a defense, but mostly, Spock thought he looked sad, and old. Older than even the doctor had any right to be.  
  
“Why?” Spock pressed.  
  
Doctor McCoy thought for a long moment, and then said, pausing frequently to gather the strength to forge onward, struggling to concentrate and make himself understood. “In medical school, they tell you that you can’t be too involved with your cases. Some people are there for the money, for the prestige- others are there because they are bleeding hearts, wanting to solve everyone’s problem with a hug and a kiss and the magical power of love.” The look that crossed Doctor McCoy’s face was equal parts sardonic and dark, bitterness welling at the edges. “Those are mostly the people that drop out, when they realize that people who are aren’t quite the way they imagined them in their heads. But no matter what your reasons are for going to medical school, you’re expected to handle all the cases with the same amount of professional distance, so you don’t get emotionally compromised.”  
  
Spock nodded his head- he could see where the teachers were coming from. As in other jobs where lives were at stake, being emotionally compromised could result in faulty decision making, which could have far greater ramifications. It would be no more reasonable to allow a captain of a starship have a personal vendetta against the Orion Syndicate to negotiate with them than it would be to allow a doctor whose child was on the operating table to perform the procedure.  
  
“If you are compromised by the case, you are expected to do your duty and say so, and hand the case off to a doctor who has more…distance. It‘s not easy, I know.” Doctor McCoy met Spock’s eyes steadily, and it went silent and unacknowledged between them that Spock had failed in being able to see when he himself had been compromised. However, from Doctor McCoy’s words, Spock knew that Doctor McCoy had once been in a situation very like his own, and made the same critical mistake, perhaps. Spock didn’t quite dare ask, not when Doctor McCoy was finally answering his long-considered question.  
  
“And that’s all well and good- in theory. But medical school doesn’t teach you about the reality of being a doctor any more than Starfleet does. There’s no such thing as being completely uncompromised from the situation at hand. Believe me, even when you think you’re not, you are, in the smallest of ways, and it takes you over by the smallest of degrees. So when they tell you that doctors should be emotionally removed from their cases, it’s nothing but a pile of bullshit. On Earth, though, you can at least pretend. Maybe you don’t know the kid in the emergency room who’s vomiting blood, or maybe you only know that girl as the whore who comes in for her monthly shots. But other times, it’s a neighbor, or your friend’s brother, or your…father.” Doctor McCoy faltered, weeping slowly again.  
  
He drew in a ragged breath and continued, “And if you think it’s bad in a city where there are a couple hundred thousand residents, where you might know three patients that you see all week, it’s nearly indescribable to deal with it on a starship. We’ve got what, about five hundred people on the Enterprise? Sure, I don’t know the name of everyone’s childhood crush, but I know their name. I know where they’re from. I know their likes and dislikes, what they’re afraid of and why they’re on the Enterprise. On a vessel even as large as the Enterprise, there’s no such thing as an ‘uncompromised’ case. Just the other day, I set Ensign Iva’s broken arm. I know the names of her parents, and how they send her weekly messages to make sure she’s alright in space. I know the last…the last…” Doctor McCoy swallowed, hard, and the next words were barely audible and full of agonized defeat, “The last person to die on my table was in that Klingon attack, Yeoman Danners. He liked animals, and was constantly after the captain to let him take his dog on the Enterprise. He told me about the sweetheart he had back home, and how if they made it through the Enterprise’s five year mission and stayed together, they could get through anything. I met his parents once, when we were on Starbase 41, and they had been in the Rigellan system for a vacation.”  
  
Spock was silent in the face of the admission. He’d never thought about it, not like that. It seemed a tragic and unforgivable oversight in retrospect. Spock opened his mouth to say something to the doctor and then shut it again.  
  
There was nothing to say.  
  
But the doctor was not yet finished speaking. “So I do what I can to save the people that I know on this ship, because I don’t have a choice. I can’t hand these people off to another doctor- it‘s not exactly like the other doctors onboard are any more emotionally distant. But I can’t…” Doctor McCoy shook his head, and avoided Spock’s gaze. “I can’t do it, not always. When someone is dying, I could be a good doctor and comfort my patient. I could tell him all the pretty lies that doctors are supposed to say. I could be human for them. But if I did that, every time someone died because I wasn’t fast enough, smart enough…I’d die too. I’ve been human for a dying man once- and it nearly destroyed me and everyone around me in the fallout. So I protect myself, and I stop being human for a little while so I don’t get caught up in my own doubts and fears and worry and kill my patient. But the price I pay comes out of my patient’s pocket- I can’t even offer them sorrow as they are dying. And that, Spock, is why I am ashamed by it, because in that moment when being human matters most, I can’t do it.”  
  
Spock was silent for a long time, as was Doctor McCoy. Even the tears that slipped out, slow and steady, weren’t accompanied by even a hint of sound.  
  
Spock had no idea how to respond. Though he was not touching Doctor McCoy, the emotions that had risen off the man as he spoke were strong enough to be tangible, and they crawled over his skin even now.  
  
Finally, Spock spoke slowly, carefully choosing his words in hopes of properly expressing what he was thinking. “Doctor McCoy…I have an appreciation for your plight. I, too, find that it is not possible to make all decisions logically, though I might wish too. However, I also think that you are harder on yourself than others would be. I…if I were to die, if you were unable to save me, I would prefer that you be able to save others than hurt yourself dwelling on my death. I feel that any of the bridge crew would tell you the same. We would be…honored to know that you would miss us when we were gone, but someone who would desire that the end of your world would come with theirs…” Spock shook his head minutely, unsure how much the doctor was understanding of his explanation, then said, “There is a saying in Vulcan. ‘The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few or the one’. If to save people, you need to close off your emotions to save them…I believe I would rather have a cold doctor who saved my life than a doctor that comforted me as I died. Furthermore, I do not think that there are very few people on the Enterprise who would call you anything but…warm.”  
  
Doctor McCoy met his gaze with a shocked look, looking as though he wasn‘t sure that what he was hearing wasn’t simply a strange hallucination brought on by the blood loss. “Really?”  
  
“I…have observed that despite your acerbic exterior, you are…surprisingly kind. You offers considerate gestures to those under your care only when they cannot thank you for it; if they do manage to figure it out, you attempt to prevent their thanks with a crude remark. It is, however, hard to ignore that you nevertheless do these things for others without expecting reciprocation,” Spock admitted, feeling as though the words were woefully inadequate.  
  
Doctor McCoy blinked, and then said in a wondering tone, as if he didn’t know what else to say, “I think the fact that you’ve observed me at work and drawn a positive conclusion against all odds is either the creepiest or sweetest thing anyone has said to me in a long time.”  
  
Spock could formulate no response. Neither was sure how to broach the topic and bring the conversation to it’s inevitable conclusion. The longer the silence lasted between them, the harder it was to muster the will to speak at all, and thus the closer Spock was to simply falling asleep. He noticed distantly that while they’d been talking, the fact that Spock could no longer feel a large majority of his limbs had slipped by, as had the fact that Doctor McCoy had absolutely no color in his face. Both of them had stopped shivering, something Spock knew distantly wasn’t a good thing. Spock stared at Doctor McCoy’s face, noting that now that the man had stopped talking, the anger and shame he’d held onto so closely was fading away, smoothing his face and making him look years younger. He might have mumbled something, something about thanks, but the words were just out of Spock’s grasp. He waited for a moment or two, trying to muster the energy to speak again but he found that now that there was silence, it felt so easy just to close his eyes, relax the tension in his body.  
  
He tried to remember, he really did, he knew that he should continue talking…something about an injury.  
  
But Spock had held on as long as he could, making Doctor McCoy speak with him. And now…  
  
Now, well, the cold was just making it slip away.


	5. Chapter 5

When Spock awoke fully, he stared at the ceiling of the medical bay for several long moments, cataloguing his last memories and feeling briefly embarrassed about the fact that at the end, as soon as he’d convinced Doctor McCoy to reveal his feelings he’d fallen asleep, as though hearing the words had released the last hold keeping him awake. He squashed the feeling, unwilling to examine the emotion further, and began concentrating on his physical injuries.

His skin, mostly around his hands and feet, had that oddly-stretchy feeling he always felt when he had skin renewed by a dermal regenerator. His bruises had faded until they were nothing more than a dull ache, even the deepest, and though he was still exhausted, his mind was blessedly clear. He worked to sit up, and found it surprisingly easy. Though he had an IV, he was not hooked up to any other machines, supporting his conclusion that he was mostly healed.

He couldn’t tell from medical bay what time it was, as the lighting depended largely on who was present at any given time and what their illnesses were. Currently, it appeared that he was one of two members in sickbay, the second member being ensconced behind curtains. He assumed it was Doctor McCoy and looked around, trying to spot someone who would be able to fill in the missing details.

Just as he was about to stand up and attempt to find someone, the curtains around Doctor McCoy’s bed rustled, and Captain Kirk stepped out with Nurse Chapel, talking quietly to one another. Upon seeing Spock, they both gasped, looking surprised at the fact that he was awake.

“Spock!” Jim exclaimed, hurrying over. “I’m so sorry- I mean, we’ve been sharing shifts, but I kinda didn’t expect you to wake up during mine, because let’s face it, things usually aren’t that easy, so I figured I’d be able to sit with Bones for a while.” When he saw Spock blinking at him a little blankly, Jim stopped and then smiled. “Sorry…I just. We didn’t want you to wake up alone- either of you. I kinda didn’t expect you to actually wake up, while I was here.” Jim immediately sat down in the chair that had been placed besides Spock’s bed, placing a hand on the area that he presumed Spock‘s legs was under the thin hospital blanket.

Nurse Chapel, meanwhile, spent the next few minutes peppering him with questions designed to test his physical, mental and emotional health. He answered them as patiently as he was able, having to reassure her several times that he was suffering no ill effects of his entrapment before she conceded to leave him with a strict warning not to overtire himself and to call her at the first sign of discomfort. His true attention, however, was on the figure hidden behind the curtains.

Doctor McCoy.

It was several moments before Nurse Chapel could actually be persuaded to leave. She kept sending them looks over her shoulder as though she wanted to kick Jim out and make sure that Spock returned to resting. As she left, Jim raised a finger, indicating that Spock should wait. “Captain Kirk to bridge,” he said into the ship communicator. “Uhura, Spock just woke up.”

There was a startled gasp on the other end, and then several cries of happiness. Spock could pick out Nyota’s voice from the bridge, asking if she could come down now. “Nurse Chapel wants him to rest,” Jim responded, not unkindly. “And I can’t have you leaving your post on the bridge. However, as soon as you’re off duty…” he trailed off meaningfully.

“Thank you, sir,” Nyota said, and she sounded grateful. “Shall I get Sulu and Chekov and Ithki on the way down?”

“I think they would appreciate it, even if you have to wake them up to do it. Tell Sulu and Chekov that it‘ll be fine if they‘re a little late for their shifts.”

“Alright. I will see you then.”

Jim released the communicator’s button, and winked at Spock. “Since beta shift ends in about an hour, you’ll be swamped with people soon enough. I think even Nyota can last that long. Even if you fall asleep again, at least we know you were awake.” Jim smiled, but it was strained, and he kept glancing to where Doctor McCoy lay. “It’s more than what we’ve had to go on. The last couple of days, waiting for you to wake up…were hard. We kept staggered watches. That’s why Nyota and Ithki are on beta, instead of alpha with me, while Sulu and Chekov are on gamma. It was the only way to make sure someone was with the two of you at all times. I’ve been keeping watching during the second half of gamma, after Scotty takes the first watch. Nyota gets the first half of alpha all to herself, then Ithki second while Sulu and Chekov split beta.”

Spock felt overwhelmed. He hadn’t realized that the people around him believed him worthy of such vigilance. It made him wonder if the room temperature had suddenly risen to cause such and inrush of heat to his body. “It was not necessary.”

Jim stared at him, and Spock was acutely aware of how clever the man was; he seemed to be aware of more than just what Spock had said. Finally, with a more genuine smile, Jim said, “Of course it was. You’re our friend, Spock, and you’re important to us. Of course we were going to stand watch.” He said it so simply and kindly that it seemed more of a fact, not six people re-arranging their schedules for the sole purpose of watching over their friends. Spock closed his eyes for a moment, basking in how genuine his captain was.

Vulcans do not give thanks, however, so he simply nodded. He couldn’t have spoken if he wanted to, not around the unusual lump in his throat.

Jim launched into a full-length explanation of the past couple of days without Spock needing to say a word. Leaning back in his chair and putting up his feet while Spock leaned back on the pillows, Jim began, quietly, so as not to disturb Doctor McCoy, “When the building came down, we were all separated. The way the building fell, the part that I was in ended up being mostly okay. The rest of the building kinda…collapsed in on itself, but the south rooms managed to remain mostly intact, so the I’Iaooii and I got out fine. The majority of the I’Iaooii, as well as our other crewmembers were in the main dining hall, and it collapsed with the room mostly exposed. We were able to beam them out. There were a few casualties on the part of the I‘Iaooii, and Ensign Jacobson…didn’t make it, but considering how many people were present, it was a miracle that so many people survived.” Jim said the words roughly, however. Spock knew that Jim was probably dwelling more on the deaths of those few than the rescue of so many others.

“Those that weren’t in the dining room, however, weren’t so lucky. The entire rest of the building collapsed in on itself- there was nothing but rubble and chaos. After beaming out all the signals that we could lock on, we started excavating everything by hand. For a long time…we could only find bodies.” Spock could practically envision the scene; body after body being pulled from the wreckage, Jim’s strained face, part agonized at the loss of life, part relieved that the bodies removed from the wreckage were not that of Spock or Doctor McCoy. “You were lucky. The room you were in was the only room not near the south wall to collapse and remain mostly in shape; the way the other rooms landed, they were crushed, but because the ceiling fell flat where you were, it kept the room from crumbling. Unfortunately, it also meant it was buried under a lot of rubble. Even with our technology, it took us the better part of five hours to excavate it enough to actually get to you both.”

Jim paled for a moment, lost in the memories, and Spock could imagine what he would have seen when the roof of their prison had been lifted: two wan, still bodies, barely breathing, the doctor injured and on the verge of death, Spock equally far gone due to the impact of cold on his physiology. He could envision Jim, Sulu, Chekov, Ithki and Nyota’s strained and pale faces- for they would not have agreed to remain onboard when their own were injured.

Jim smiled brightly then, but it was too bright, and the smile couldn’t hide the fact that Jim’s face was covered in three days of stubble at least, never mind the deep shadows under his eyes, as though he hadn’t slept in all that time. “So we found you in that room, got you out, and made damn sure that you were going to stay alive. That was three days ago. And…well, here you are.”

Spock nodded. A thousand questions crowded in the forefront of his brain, but only one mattered at the moment. “Doctor McCoy?” he asked softly. The curtains said, of course, that the doctors didn’t expect him to wake up any time soon, or they’d have withdrawn them to make sure that someone was there to see how he was functioning once he woke up, and withdrawing the curtain would allow them to see exactly when it happened. Actually, it made Spock wonder where the nurses and doctors were, but that question was barely acknowledged when Jim opened his mouth.

“He’s…in a bad way,” Jim whispered quietly, his voice croaking a little. “Frostbite on his fingers and toes that had to be healed. Intracranial swelling that needed to be relieved. They don’t know how much, if any damage was done before the swelling was relieved, and they won’t know until he wakes up. The broken bones were set and partially treated with an osteosetter, but they didn’t dare do more than that, because they had to head off the beginnings of an infection, and if they’d set it all the way, they’d have sealed the infection into his bones. The bruises and cuts were mostly healed. His leg though…” Jim inhaled, breath wavering slightly. “The cold led to complications in removing the shrapnel, because it damaged the surrounding tissue even further. To safely remove the metal without removing half his thigh in the process, they had to do a partial regeneration of the tissue so they would only have to cut away a small portion of the flesh. Even so, there was a lot of damage. They think he’s got an eighty percent chance of regaining full mobility, but even then he’ll have a scar on his leg for the rest of his life. Assuming all of that goes off without a hitch, he’ll still be in therapy for at least six weeks, after an additional two weeks of bed rest to let his bones and body heal the rest of the way. First though, he has to wake up.”

Jim’s face scrunched up a little as he put his head in his hands for a minute. There was another one of those quavering little breaths, then Jim lifted his head and smiled at Spock. “But like I said, you’re awake, so that’s great. We’ve all missed you. The bridge isn’t the same without you, that’s for sure.”

They made small talk out of the ship’s business, Jim discussing all the things done during his stay in the infirmary. Not long after, Nyota, Sulu, Chekov, Scotty and Ithki swarmed the medical bay, exclaiming in quiet voices how happy they were to see him awake, asking him if he felt alright, wondering aloud what he needed. Spock mostly listened after he initially assuaged everyone‘s fears; his one comment voiced that did not have something to do with either his ordeal or his current condition was that as soon as he was released, he wanted to take Ithki’s watch over Doctor McCoy. The young Clavian had no problem with that, as she had no particular attachment to the doctor, but instead had been keeping watch for Spock. Her blue scales turned bright green with happiness as she repeated that she would be happy to see the First Officer back in the labs.

“It’s not the same without you,” she said. “I must coax out of our scientists what you manage without speaking. I am not sure how you do it, day after day!” She stretched her lips in a human approximation of a grin, revealing her pointed teeth. Teeth aside, she had a surprisingly warm smile. “Now, I need to return to the labs, or else my experiment is likely to form noxious fumes in the chemistry labs that will likely kill people.” With that somewhat nerve-wracking pronouncement, she left, calling over her shoulder, “I am glad you are well, Commander Spock, and look forward to seeing you as soon as you get out of medical bay!”

“Us too,” Sulu agreed, clapping Chekov on the shoulder. “We’ve got to get to the bridge.” Sulu and Chekov stood and made their own exits considerably more calmly than Ithki had.

“Energetic, isn’t she?” Nyota said dryly.

“Her work in the science labs as my second are commendable,” Spock said. “But yes, she certainly seems to have an unusual amount of energy, even for her species.”

Jim raised an eyebrow and laughed, with Nyota joining in with a considerably more subdued chuckle. Eventually, however, Nurse Chapel shooed everyone away, saying that Spock needed to rest. After switching out his IV for a fresh bag, Spock was ordered to sleep. The next day, he was released, and the day following that, he resumed his normal duties, including spending the latter half of beta shift sitting in medical bay, going over reports from the days he had not been on board.

However, three days later, Doctor McCoy still hadn’t woken up. Doctor Michelson was reluctant to declare a coma, though, since the doctor was still breathing on his own, had normal brain activity and was still responding to external stimuli. However, if he continued to remain unconscious, something would have to be done.

Spock spent the six hours during which he sat at Doctor McCoy’s bedside attempting to do work, but he mostly just spent his time staring at the doctor. Yellowish marks, the remnants of his bruises, peppered his skin. His arm was in a cast, while his leg was in traction; the other was heavily bandaged. His ribs had been wrapped as well, with his fingers and toes covered in a salve to help promoted healthy dermal growth, supplementing the work done by the dermal regenerator to remove the frostbitten skin. While in the rubble he had looked injured, ill, now he simply looked small, frail. The white bandages covering so much of his skin reminded Spock just how easily injured humans were. He felt the irrational urge to whisk the doctor away and sequester him in a place where this could not, would not happen again. Spock knew it wasn’t possible, let alone logical, but the desire existed nevertheless.

The only conclusion Spock could come to was that Doctor McCoy, against all odds, had become a friend as dear as any of his others, though he fought to pretend he didn’t have such feelings. However, it was a conclusion that could not be denied, not when Spock felt that surge of friendship, of happiness and something bittersweet every time he thought of Doctor McCoy’s hesitant explanation of why he was ashamed. It made Spock admire the doctor- he wished to give all he could afford and then some, was more than willing to bleed if it meant his patients, his friends, didn’t have to. The doctor was a person to be admired to the utmost degree, someone who acted for others before themselves. Spock wondered how he’d been so blind to it before. What he’d found in Doctor McCoy was worthy of acknowledgement, of…Spock wasn’t sure how to give voice to the thoughts swirling in his head.

All Spock knew was that it was necessary for Doctor McCoy to wake up, because Spock had to speak of his thoughts, had to apologize for wronging Doctor McCoy- for now his dislike seemed petty, forged primarily in his own conviction of Doctor McCoy’s childishness and lack of understanding of what it meant to make hard choices. In reality, Doctor McCoy was all too aware, and fought anyways.

He fought because he could act in no other fashion, because he was too compassionate, too full of love under that acerbic exterior. It made Spock want to act in a most un-Vulcan way and meet the doctor halfway and prove that while he was not unaffected by his hard decisions, he still acknowledge the fact that they needed to be made.

But Spock couldn’t do any of that, couldn’t accomplish any of those varied goals unless Doctor McCoy first awoke.

So he sat vigil, mentally counting and re-counting the odds of Doctor McCoy’s chances of reawakening at all, his chances of reawakening in some impaired state, his chances of reawakening during Spock’s vigil. The numbers were the only distractions from the way Spock’s own thoughts ran around in circles, examining and re-examining his behavior, Doctor McCoy’s behavior, their interactions, their personalities.

Even the numbers couldn’t keep his thoughts out for long, and Spock couldn’t help but hold onto the hope that Doctor McCoy would reawaken during his vigil.

Four long days passed in that fashion.

The medical team was getting desperate. Finally, Doctor M’Benga, one of the few doctors who was knowledgeable in Vulcan physiology took Spock aside for a moment and asked in a quiet voice, “Do you think doing a mind meld would help? It might be able to tell us if Doctor McCoy’s mind is still intact, if he realizes that he’s safe, if he’s in pain or if there’s some sort of damage in his brain that’s preventing him from waking up.” Doctor M’Benga studied Spock seriously. “I don’t want to put undue pressure on you, and I’ll understand if your refuse, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

Spock considered the question for several long moments. “While I acknowledge that it would be possible to decipher the answers to all those questions if I enacted a mind-meld with Doctor McCoy, my concern lies in the fact that if he does not accept me, if he does not accept the meld, I may do further damage to his psyche that would not be able to be repaired. In addition, it is extremely intrusive to enact a meld without explicit permission, on top of which, I have never performed a meld on a species that was not themselves telepathic to at least some degree.”

Doctor M’Benga opened his mouth to speak, but Spock overrode him. “However, I also understand that there are few other options available to us at this time, and his mind is the one variable over which we have no control, as his injuries are healing. Therefore, I will wait an additional twenty-four hours, during which I will endeavor to study melds done between telepathic and non-telepathic species, as well as meditate in order to achieve a gentle and careful meld. If he does not wake before the twenty-four hours are completed, I shall do as you have asked.”

Doctor M’Benga looked grateful, and Spock left medical bay.

Twenty-four hours brought no change. In addition to Doctor M’Benga, Nurse Chapel and Doctor Michelson, Jim, and Nyota were present, to add their silent support. Spock was in an almost dream-like state as he walked through the medical bay, thoughts focused inward, holding an active meditative state. He finally seated himself next to Doctor McCoy and spoke, voice sounding tinny and distant to his own ears, “During the mind-meld, it is critical that I not be moved. An inadvertent breaking of the link, depending on how deeply we are enmeshed, could result in the death of one or both of us. I do not know how long it will take, so it may be advisable to get in contact with New Vulcan if something happens and were are lost to proper consciousness.” Spock didn’t wait for anyone to answer, but instead rested his fingers on Doctor McCoy’s meld points and fell into his mind.

\----------

Spock resurfaced on the shallowest layer of the consciousness of Doctor McCoy where thoughts were still rather faint, and emotions were not yet predominant. There was a grudging admittance, the sense that Doctor McCoy wouldn’t normally let anyone into his mind like this, the sense that this was a privilege that was unlikely to be bestowed ever again unless circumstances were so dire that there was no other choice.

“We felt the circumstances warranted it,” Spock responded to that sense of irritation and discomfort. “You have been unconscious for nine days, and have caused those around you great concern. I am here to inquire if there is a reason for this; if there is something I can do to alleviate pain or promote your return to awareness, I shall do so, and then I shall leave.” The discomfort faded slightly, though the irritation remained.

Spock waited for a moment, but no other response was forthcoming, so he fell deeper into the meld, focusing on a place where the two minds could comfortably meet, a place where they could visualize self-images in order to communicate as though they were not enmeshed in each other’s minds, but speaking to each other in person. It was not the way most telepaths would choose to communicate, but it would bring a sense of comfort to Doctor McCoy’s mind, hopefully easing his urge to fight over his dominion, as though Spock was ready to forcibly take over his mind.

It was slow going, finding a space where the minds could coexist. Spock’s instinct was to send thought-images and emotions to communicate, while Doctor McCoy desired to speak with words only and block Spock from true access to his mind. Finally, Spock managed to forge a room between their minds where the deeper parts of their personalities and thoughts existed independently, but where communication and visualization was still possible.

Spock blinked once as he stepped into the room. Doctor McCoy was already there, scowling as though Spock was a personal affront to all that was right and decent. “I was doing fine,” he snarled. “I don’t want any of this mind mumbo-jumbo. I’ve seen enough effects of telepathic communication that I know how damaging it can be if it’s not done perfectly. Frankly, I have a personal aversion to madness, so get the hell out of my mind before I _make_ you.”

Emotion hammered Spock, a physical blow that knocked him to the knees in the room. “Curious,” Spock managed to gasp out past what had felt like a hard punch to his solar plexus. “Tell me doctor, when your psi ratings were taken, did you score particularly high on the empathic scale?”

The good doctor’s scowl deepened. “Now what does that have to do with the price of peas in Persepolis? I want you _out_!”

Spock shook his head. “Several times, even when I have had my shields in place, I inadvertently felt your emotions. Just now, your emotions almost managed to knock me out of the meld. The most probable reason is that you have an extraordinarily high empathic sense. If you were to put an effort into knocking me out of the meld, I would have a large amount of difficulty staying, assuming it could be done at all.”

Doctor McCoy, as Spock had hoped, relaxed a little at the pronouncement; it reassured him that he was at least a little in control of the situation here. “What do you want?”

“Solely to ascertain the reason for your unconsciousness, Doctor McCoy. When I am assured that you will be joining us, I will depart, and not intrude on your mind any longer.”

Doctor McCoy’s chin jutted out in a rather predictable fashion. “And if I don’t want to wake up?”

Spock looked at Doctor McCoy, nonplussed for a moment. “For what reason would you desire to remain in this state of unconsciousness?”

Doctor McCoy turned away, staring at the wall of the room as though he could see something other than the plain white walls that Spock had created. He let out a frustrated breath, running a hand through his dark locks. It drew Spock’s attention to the fact that his mental image of himself didn’t look much better than his exterior. His loose dark hair looked grubby as though he had spent three days straight in medical bay, his face rough with facial hair. Dark bags under his eyes, the stooped shoulders. His mouth was tight as he rubbed at the bridge of his nose.

“Doctor McCoy,” Spock prompted.

“I’m tired, dammit,” Doctor McCoy growled. He heaved a sigh. “Maybe I’m getting too old for this shit-”

Spock interrupted the doctor, saying, “You are not old, doctor. You are, in fact, in the prime of the average human’s lifespan.”

Doctor McCoy let out a hissing breath, irritated, “Not literally tired. Not physically. Just…I don’t know. I don’t know if I can do this anymore. After talking to you about everything, I kept thinking about everything I’ve done, thinking about patients that made it and patients that didn’t. I don’t…” Doctor McCoy sighed again, frustrated and unable to communicate.

Spock stepped forward, coming to stand shoulder to shoulder with the doctor, staring at the wall without seeing it. “Doctor McCoy, you seem to be suffering from some mistaken conclusions about your relative worth.”

Doctor McCoy whirled on him, opening his mouth so as to express the full extent of his rage, but Spock overrode him. “While I will be the first to admit that Captain Kirk has the loyalty and love of the crewmembers, he is not the only one.” Doctor McCoy looked surprised and his mouth was snapped shut. “You, Doctor McCoy, it is you who heals their wounds and gives them comfort. Even you cannot have missed how the medical personnel follow your lead, how they speak about you as though you are the center of their universe. Surely you have also heard how many crewmembers speak fondly of you. Ensign Chekov talks about you often, though he seems to be under the erroneous impression that modern medicine was invented in Russia.”

“The kid’s only eighteen,” Doctor McCoy blustered. “And it was just some cold towels while he was sick. It’s not like I was doing any more than my job.”

“And when Chief Engineer Scott was burned, and you made sure that every inch of his skin was healed before resting, despite having completed a double shift already, because the burns had made him delirious with pain, and he was asking for you.”

“Well, if he was asking for me, then of course I was going to do it!”

“And he passed out three minutes into the procedure. There was nothing stopping you from giving the task to someone else.”

“But…he asked for me. Of course I was going to do it. I wouldn’t be able to look at him again if I didn’t.”

“And these are only two examples of the sort of man you are, Doctor McCoy. If you consider it closely, I’m sure that you will see that you are an extraordinary doctor.”

Doctor McCoy shook his head, sounding pleading as he said, “I was just doing my job! All those times, every time, I was just doing my job!”

“And others, who do less than you, are they too doing their job? Do those who do not wipe the sweat from their patients heads, or who do not spend eighteen hours a day researching a cure, are they lesser doctors? If they do not spend days agonizing over a patient’s death, if they who do not feel shame or are embarrassed at being unable to ‘be human’, as you put it, for their patients, even if it results in their own destruction, does it mean they are inferior? I implore you, Doctor McCoy, to listen to the words that I am saying, for I am confident in my conclusions.”

For the first time, Doctor McCoy let out a small laugh, a genuine smile tucked into the corners of his mouth. “I suppose you have the ability to be kind after all, Mr. Spock. Only you can make those compliments sound like facts.”

“I did not compliment you, as you believe. I did indeed simply state facts. You are an excellent doctor that an enormous number of the crew admires for your intelligence, kindness and ingenuity.”  
  
“I’m blushing,” Doctor McCoy drawled. He did not blush, however, though there was a certain softness around his face. “How can I resist such pretty words?”

Spock decided to ignore the fact that words could not be visually enticing, and said instead, “Do not resist. Wake up, Doctor McCoy and return to the admirable work that you have been doing for this ship. As I said earlier, Doctor McCoy, Captain Kirk may be the heart of this ship, he may have their loyalty, but you have their confidence. They are less afraid to go out into the unknown, because they know they have you on their side to repair the damage that is inflicted. I ask that you do not deprive them of your presence, but instead, come back to us.”

Doctor McCoy stood quietly, face serious, holding a hand out to the wall. Images came to life on the wall, fantastic and realistic in equal numbers- Doctor McCoy flying a starship, holding a child, falling off a cliff, watching a rock bleed, sewing a wound. Doctor McCoy stepped forward, resting his head on the wall and loosing a long, strained breath.

“Yeah,” Doctor McCoy said in a nearly silent voice. “Yeah, I’ll come back.”

Spock nodded, sharp and quick, and then prepared to leave.

“Spock?” Doctor McCoy asked.

“Yes?” Spock paused in his exit, half turning back towards the other man.

“I realize that Vulcans don’t say thanks, but I hope you can take mine.” Doctor McCoy studied him, and then smiled, slow and sweet and genuine and Spock wondered if the doctor realized how his aesthetics improved when he smiled. “Thank you, for not letting me give up in the cave, and taking care of me. Thank you for asking me that question; even if it was only to satisfy your curiosity, even if neither of us knew why it had to be asked and answered. Thank you for coming here and reminding me why I became a doctor.”

Spock gazed at the doctor, a smile shining in his eyes if not on his face. “Though you are right in saying that Vulcans aren’t given to expressions of thanks, I find that I can only say that your thanks, while kind, were not needed. I simply…helped your realize the reality of the situation.”

“I’ll give you your damn reality,” Doctor McCoy grumbled, but there was laughter in his voice instead of the cool mocking that would have been present as much as two weeks ago.

“On the outside?” Spock questioned.

Doctor McCoy smiled again, bright and warm. “Yeah,” he confirmed. “I guess I’ll keep saving your collective asses for a little while longer.” Then he scowled. “Though you could make my job easier if the pair of you stopped with the last-minute hair-brained schemes that you seem to think are so clever.”

Spock shook his head, sensing that this was a battle that he could not win. Instead, he gestured with his hand.

The next breath, they both disappeared from the room.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a super old work I've finally moved over from LJ!


End file.
